


Day By Day

by lanri



Series: Unseen [30]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindness, Gen, Prompt Fic, Unseen 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 21,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fic: each chapter based off various prompts by my readers.<br/>PROMPTING OPEN UNTIL DECEMBER 18TH</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Graduation Day

“I’m just saying, you look pretty dorky in that getup.”

“Shut up, Dean. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Okay, princess.” Sam could hear his brother’s grin, and scowled, reaching up to adjust his cap once more.

“No, don’t touch it. I was kidding, promise. Here.” Sam’s hands were batted away by Dean’s more competent ones, and he sighed.

“Dean, I swear, if you write something on my face—“

“Would I do that to you?” Dean’s voice was affronted, and Sam let the pause speak his opinion.

“Okay, yeah, I would do that, but this is your special day. Pinky promise.”

“‘We don’t use pinky promises, Sam, pinky promises are for girls,’” Sam quoted.

“Thumb promises, then.”

“You are such a dork.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Sam ignored his brother and began running through his speech in his head.

“You know . . . Sammy, you know Dad is proud of you.”

He wanted to laugh at that ridiculous statement, but he didn’t want to hurt Dean, so that was the last thing he would do. “Yeah, Dean,” he said agreeably. “I know.”

Dean gave a frustrated growl in front of him, and Sam tried to school his face into sincerity.

“Whatever,” Dean muttered. “When should we leave?”

“Um, soon, I think.”

“Am I supposed to carry you across the threshold?”

Sam groaned. “That’s if you’re getting married, Dean.”

“Oh, right.” Dean’s amusement was unrepentant, and he nudged Sam forward. “Let’s go get you that degree so you stop whining to Dad about moving, huh?”

Sam felt a twinge of regret at keeping his applications a secret—but today was not the day to reveal that.

* * *

“And what is a journey? Is it just distance traveled? Time spent? No, it's what happens on the way. It's the things that shape you. At the end of the journey, you're not the same. Today is about change.”

Dean smirked and looked around, but no one else appeared to have noticed. Instead, he re-focused on Sam giving his semi-plagiarized valedictorian speech.

“It’s a wonder he was able to make valedictorian, with his disability,” someone whispered behind him, and Dean glowered at them. At Sam’s next words, he turned back to the stage.

“In the end, the one person I most have to thank is my big brother. Without him, I wouldn’t be on this stage.” Dean flushed, but at least Sam couldn’t point him out. Sam finished up, saying “Once again, congratulations to the graduating class.”

Dean couldn’t have been prouder, and he was pretty sure his grin was larger than anyone else’s.

It took a while for them to go through the long lists of graduates, and Dean had zoned out by the time they got to “Winchester.” Once the large amount of handshaking had finished, Dean was ready for a beer.

Still, there was something in that huge grin of Sam’s that made it all worth it.

Skillfully, Dean eased through the crowd until he was right behind Sam and jumped on him.

“Nice try, Dean,” Sam laughed. “I know when you’re coming.”

“Shut up.” Dean beamed at him. “So, anyone notice you took your speech from _Buffy_?”

Sam’s smile had reached 100 watts. “Not yet. Figured you would be the only one.”

“Yeah, well, no one has taste. C’mon, wanna get out of here?”

Sam had always hated crowds. “Please.”

“I meant what I said on stage, y’know,” Sam said in the car.

“Huh?”

“Thank you. For everything, Dean.”

“I’m rolling my eyes,” Dean deadpanned. “Okay, kiddo. Just because you’re graduating doesn’t mean anything changes.”

“Yeah.” Sam sank down in the seat a little. “Nothing’ll change.”

“Yup,” Dean affirmed cheerfully. “Life’s looking good, huh?”

Sam nodded, but he must have moved onto something else in his enormous brain, and Dean let him get into his thinking mood on his own, focusing on the drive.


	2. Like Father Like . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Mystery Madchen @ Fanfiction.net: John and Sam interaction in front of other hunters and Sam being awesome.

“Dean, get your brother put to bed.”

John caught Dean’s glare, but ignored it. Teenagers would be teenagers. “Big hunt tonight, so we’ll probably be at the bar afterwards if you want to meet us there,” he added after a moment. “Don’t forget your fake ID.”

“What about Sammy?”

“You can leave him here.” John spared a glance at his blind son. “Just make sure he goes to the bathroom first.”

Sam’s head went up, flush high on his cheeks. “I can use the bathroom on my own,” he said proudly.

John bit back a sarcastic retort that was on the tip of his tongue. “See you boys later,” he said instead.

“Good luck on your hunt,” Sam called after him. Dean, uncharacteristically, was silent, still stewing about some probably semi-offensive comment John had made. John sighed as he closed the motel door. Some days they were just too much for him.

* * *

John clapped Caleb on the shoulder and grinned at the other two hunters. “Drinks on me, guys.” The bar wasn’t too crowded, thankfully, and John went straight up to the bar to order. When he turned around, he found his fellow hunters over in the back of the bar.

“How ‘bout a game of pool?”

John heard Dean’s voice as he approached and smiled. At least he had gotten out of his funk.

“You’ve already had two beers, you’re gonna miss every shot.”

John’s smile disappeared. Grimly, he approached the table. “Boys,” he said coolly. “What are you two doing here?” He shot a look at Dean that spoke volumes.

“You said you would come here to celebrate after the hunt if it was successful. Joshua called, so Sammy and I headed over.” Dean’s expression was defiant.

John caught Caleb giving Sam a significant patronizing once-over.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Nathan, Joshua’s younger partner, was giving John’s two boys a dubious look. “You can’t be older than sixteen.”

Dean bristled. “I’m eighteen.”

“And you, kid?”

Sam shrank back. “Fourteen.”

Dean moved slightly in front of his brother, carefree grin with hard eyes behind it. “Me and that bartender get along. She knows Sam here won’t cause any trouble.”

John coughed, getting the attention off of his sons. “So, I take it no one wants this beer?”

A disturbance at the bar had all of the hunters stiffening and turning—hunters tended to be paranoid, no matter what—and listening in closely to the loud discussion.

“Another death,” Joshua said, disbelieving. “But we finished the chupacabra’s off. There were only four.”

“Apparently not,” Caleb muttered darkly. “Celebration will have to wait, gentlemen.”

“Dad, can I come?”

John turned to Dean. “Dean, you can’t—“

“I’ll wait in the car,” Sam interjected.

Torn, John glanced at the other hunters, noting Caleb’s sneer and Joshua’s questioning glance.

“Fine.”

* * *

“Sammy, you stay here, okay? You sure you don’t want me with you?”

“I’ll be fine, Dean.”

John heard his boys conversing softly and felt a slight twinge of—oddly enough—jealousy. Before Sam was blinded, Dean had tended to gravitate towards impressing John with his knowledge, trying to talk to him at every point. Now, the two of them were inseparable, which left John out of the loop.

“Dean, you have your shotgun?” he interrupted.

“Yessir.”

The desert was hot and dry, and John levered himself out of the car with a grunt. The first round, they had killed four chupacabras. One or two must’ve been hiding somewhere else.

“Got your boys taken care of?”

Caleb’s tone was a little too sardonic for John’s taste. “They can take care of themselves,” he said shortly.

“Alright, boys, let’s get ‘em,” Joshua racked his shotgun and grinned at them.

The desert was too silent, and John worriedly glanced at Dean.

“Dad, aren’t the chupacabras attracted to blood?” Dean whispered, glancing at the carcass Nathan was dragging.

“Yeah, they’re supposed to be.”

A shot rang out, and John whirled.

“Sammy!” Dean roared, and took off sprinting. John was hot on his heels, and skidded to a stop to find Dean checking Sam over efficiently, a dead chupacabra at his feet.

“Sam?” John asked numbly.

“I heard it. Outside the car. I, um, I shot it,” Sam said, rather faintly. His eyes—John avoided looking at them most of the time—looked like they were staring up at the starry sky.

“Why did you leave the car?” Dean demanded.

“I didn’t want the chupacabra to scratch the Impala,” Sam whispered, obviously expecting Dean’s reprobation and cringing away.

Dean swore at him, but then the other hunters jogged up, and his mood flipped into that of a proud and protective older brother.

Joshua whistled. “Man, kid. You’ve got guts.” Even Caleb looked vaguely impressed.

“Let’s get you boys home,” John said. He looked at Sam with new appreciation, even as Dean fussed. Maybe he had underestimated him.

* * *

At the motel, Dean was in the shower, and John sat down across from his youngest son.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, haltingly.

“Thanks,” Sam said just as awkwardly.

“I, uh, you're doing okay, right? With the Braille?”

“Yessir.” Sam’s long fingers were twisting together nervously. Good fingers for bow hunting, though that wouldn’t be an option anymore.

“Well, sleep, um, well,” John fumbled for Sam’s shoulder, patting it.

Sam flinched at John’s touch. “Thanks.”

Dean came out of the bathroom, pausing at the sight of them. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” John said quickly. “Get to bed, Dean.” He made his escape into the bathroom and sighed as he leaned against the door. Faintly, he could hear the two of them talking.

“What was that about?”

“Think Dad was trying to talk to me. And kinda failing.”

“Yeah, well, he’s trying. Don’t be too hard on him.”

“I know, Dean.”

John swallowed and closed his eyes. Times like this, and the ache of missing Mary was too large to ignore. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A large number of prompts have already been written for prompts given on fanfic.net, so any prompts on here will be posted after those are done (about ten?) so don't worry, I'm not ignoring you :)


	3. Splintered Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from: Hacked It Out and Fell @ fanfiction.net  
> Sam's first serious injury after being blinded. Could be from a hunt or just a day to day accident.

Sam was no stranger to fear. It followed him to bed as he thought about the types of monsters that hunted during the night. It whispered in his ear as he heard people talking about poor little children and bruises. It laughed at him when he stumbled.

Terror, though. Well, Sam was no stranger to it either, but that didn’t mean he was used to it.

“Dude, that’s so your fault.”

“The punk was in my way, I didn’t see him!”

“Well, duh, he wasn’t going to see you.”

Sam’s ears were ringing. Why were they ringing? That was where the terror came in, he thought vaguely. Not knowing things. Everything was off-kilter and filled with—

Sam’s leg moved and he bit back a scream. His breaths came in quick, sobbing succession.

“Did someone call 911 already?”

“Go get a teacher, idiot!”

“Dean,” Sam whimpered. “Dean?”

Strange voices accosted him from all sides, and Sam flinched back as a strange hand fell heavy on his shoulder.

“Hey kid, the paramedics are here. Just stay calm.”

Terror reared its ugly head and blanketed him as strange people began manipulating Sam, holding him down. Sam yelled for his brother, but he never came.

“He’s panicking, hold him down, now!”

“No,” Sam cried out, but everything was heavy and painful and his lungs were burning . . . and then the silence descended.

* * *

There was a beeping. And a low, hoarse diatribe that had a lot of swear words in it. For a moment, Sam tried to open his eyes to see where he was.

But right. He was blind. It had been a year, and Sam had thought he would have been used to it.

But unfortunately not.

His tongue wouldn’t work, and instead Sam tried to move enough to get someone’s attention, but he was in a strange haze.

“Sammy?”

Sam relaxed the second he heard his brother’s voice. Dean was there. Everything would be okay.

“Sam, can you hear me? Move your hand.”

With a monumental effort, Sam managed a twitch.

“Okay, that’s good. That's real good, Sammy. You’re gonna be fine.”

Sam wanted to know why he couldn’t move, but only managed to make his face twist a little.

“Yeah, I know. You’re using that big brain of yours to try and figure things out, huh? Well we're in the hospital, cuz some moronic kid whose lungs I’m going to rip out . . . well, he knocked you down a flight of stairs. Bit of a concussion going on, plus a broken leg.”

A broken leg. Sam felt fear lapping at his mind again, and he grunted in an attempt to deny it.

“Hey, don’t you freak on me, Sam, or the doctor’s’ll kick me out.”

Sam swallowed, still tense and unhappy.

“Pinky promise I'll read some of those boring books you like, too. Huh? How ‘bout that?”

Sam still couldn’t quite speak, but managed to reach out a little with his hand, relaxing as his brother’s familiar palm landed in his own.

“Go back to sleep, Sammy. You’re safe.”

* * *

The cast was thick and unwieldy.

Sam hated it.

“Dude, you get to miss school, what’s your problem?” Dean asked.

Sam scowled. “I’m stuck barely moving, Dean. Tell me you wouldn’t be going out of your mind.”

“Yeah,” Dean conceded. “I hear you.”

“Might as well shoot me in the head and make things easier for everyone,” Sam muttered.

“Whoa! Hey, hey, hold up there.” Sam’s arm was grabbed in a bruising grip. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” Sam said sullenly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, like I won’t worry about that. Sammy, c’mon. Don’t you trust me?”

Sam fidgeted. “Yeah.”

“Then talk to me. You don’t want to die, do you?”

“No,” Sam muttered. “I’m just . . . useless. Even more than usual.”

“I don’t care about that, Sammy.” Sam felt the couch depress where Dean sat down. “Are you saying I’m a bad brother? Cuz I’m totally gonna be offended if that’s what you’re saying.”

Sam shook his head.

Dean’s hand brushed Sam’s hair away from where it hung low—Sam tried to keep it that way so it would hide his eyes. “I promise you, you are never a burden, Sammy.”

Awkwardly, Sam reached out for his brother, relief flowing through his bones—whole and broken—as Dean’s grip was sure and comforting. “Thanks, Dean,” he mumbled into Dean’s shirt. “You’re the best.”

“I know, right?”

Sam smiled, and the fear melted away.


	4. Sunglasses and Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riverdalerider99 @ fanfiction.net: Could you maybe do an outsider pov fic? Like Sam and Dean in a bar or the library or something and someone notices them.

“Poor kid.” 

Lori shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs of reading homework. She kept mixing up the characters names. “Huh?” 

Her mom was looking sadly at a couple of guys. “It’s such a pity.” 

Lori tilted her head. “What is?” 

“Finish your homework, dear.” Mommy tapped Lori on the forehead and smiled. “Don’t move, okay?” 

Lori nodded, watching as Mommy went to the bathroom, nodding at the librarian as she did so. They always came to the library after school. It was Lori’s favorite place. 

“Dean, I’m telling you, it should be in the newspaper archives.” 

“I know I’m not the best at researching, but I swear I couldn’t find it.” 

“Look one more time? For me?” 

“Someday, that face is not going to work. Look, hang out here, okay?” 

Lori looked at the talking men. One of them sat down in the table next to hers, the other marching off to some other part of the library. Sneakily, she scooted off her chair and over to his table. 

“Someone there?” 

Lori giggled. “You’re funny.” 

His mouth twitched a little. “That right? How come?” 

“You’re wearing sunglasses indoors. That’s silly.” 

“Maybe a little bit. What’s your name?” 

“Lori,” she said. “With an ‘i’.” 

“Oh yeah? Well, Lori with an ‘i’. What are you doing here?” 

“I love the library,” she announced. “I come here every day.” 

“Good for you.” He had a super nice smile, not a scary one like her teacher. Lori beamed at him. 

“I want to be a doctor,” she told him. 

“That’s great, Lori. You can do it. No matter what anyone else says,” he said. His expression looked a little sad, and Lori wrinkled up her nose. 

“Well, duh,” she giggled. “Oh! What’s your name?” 

“Sam.” 

“That’s a nice name,” Lori said politely. Her mom told her it was best to compliment people, that way they would see themselves better. 

“You’re very sweet.” His smile was happy again. 

Lori grinned. He knew the complimenting trick too! “Whatcha looking for?” she asked. 

“Me and my brother, we’re hunting bad guys,” Sam explained her seriously. Lori liked it when adults didn’t treat her like she was stupid. “And we’re trying to figure out when bad things have happened in your town.” 

“Oh! You mean bad stuff like when people use guns?” 

“Uh huh. Things like that.” 

“I know where they are,” Lori said proudly. “Cuz doctors have to be smart and look at stuff, so I know where they are.” 

“Where are they?” Sam questioned. 

“Mrs. Drew doesn’t like people reading about the bad stuff. So she hides them in her office. I saw them one day when Mommy had to leave me here late.” Lori itched her hand. “Do you like my shirt? It’s my favorite.” 

“I like it,” Sam said softly. 

“Lori?” 

Lori jumped up on her seat. “Mommy!” 

Mommy had a frown. “Lori, are you bugging this nice man?” 

“No!” Lori shouted indignantly, earning her a shushing from Mrs. Drew. Abashed she whispered, “no.” 

“She’s been great. Lori tells me she wants to be a doctor,” Sam interjected. 

“That she does,” Mommy replied. “I hope she hasn’t bothered you too much.” 

“Not at all.” Sam’s nice smile came out, but it wasn’t quite as bright as before. “It was nice meeting you, Lori.” 

“Bye, Sam!” 

Mommy lifted her out of the seat and carried her off. 

“Such a pity,” she said again, which made no sense at all. Lori sighed. Grown-ups were so weird some times. 

She waved goodbye to Sam, but he didn’t wave back. That was rude. Lori pouted. 

“Sweetie, do you want ice cream?” 

“Ice cream!” Lori forgot all about Sam. “Can I have strawberry?” 

“Okey-dokey.” Mommy tickled her side and Lori giggled. She loved ice cream.


	5. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkeneddaybreak @ fanfiction.net: maybe something where Sam and Dean switch who's blind. Like either Sam's blindness is transferred to Dean, or they switch bodies, or even Dean is just temporarily blinded- I would just like to see Dean getting a glimpse of what life is like in Sam's shoes. And i would like to see a role-reversal, where Sam is the one leading Dean and helping him cope with the blindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original title, i know. ;)   
> p.s. still open for prompts, so have at it for a while until I get too stuck :D

Dean wanted it engraved on his headstone: Dean Winchester. He Hated Witches.

Well, he wouldn’t have a tomb, because hunters relied on cremation, but still. He opened his mouth to tell Sam that—maybe it would make him laugh—but then shut it just as fast. This curse . . . well, maybe it wasn’t a curse for Sam. He might be enjoying it. Maybe he would want it to stay this way. After all, with his mind in Dean’s body, he wasn’t blind anymore. Dean would be the blind one.

Dean hated himself for immediately reacting to the thought with fear and loathing. He couldn’t live like this.

But this was how Sam lived every day. Wasn’t Dean always wanting to help Sam? Now he was helping him in the best way possible. Right?

“Dean?”

It was ridiculous, how hearing his own voice from different ears gave him the willies.

The willies? Was he thinking like Sam?

“Dean, are you okay?’

“Yeah, dude, I’m cool. A little disoriented,” Dean confessed.

“I’d imagine.”

“Is my voice really that deep?” Dean wondered.

“Yeah, I’d say you were overcompensating for something.” There was teasing in Sam’s voice . . . maybe? It was hard, without the cues of facial expressions.

“Shut up.” Dean shifted uncertainly. “So, I have no idea how to do anything. Any hints?”

“Oh, right! Sorry, I had forgotten. Um, so, try standing up.”

Dean stood, and immediately felt far too . . . long. “Man, how tall are you?”

“Taller than I thought I was,” Sam admitted. Dean turned towards his voice.

“Try walking towards me. Nothing’s in the way. Just to practice.”

Dean took one shaky step forward and hated it. Where was he? Where was everything? The only thing he could compare was when they had once had a hunt in the sewers, and Dean had gotten separated from Sam and his Dad.

But this was worse.

“Am I ten feet tall now? I feel ten feet tall,” he joked, trying to distract himself.

“It would be a bit narcissistic to be impressed with how tall I am, wouldn’t it?” Sam wondered. Dean continued to follow his voice.

“I am seriously impressed.”

“With what?”

“How you get around so easily.” Dean’s outstretched fingertips collided with a flannel shirt and an amulet. The instant he realized it wasn’t on his own chest, he felt naked. “There you are.” There was a little more relief in his voice than he cared to analyze. “So, what’s it like being handsome?” he immediately smirked.

“Ha ha.” Sam hesitated. “Look, Dean. This was just caused by touching statue, right? So all we have to do is sneak back into the museum and touch it again, maybe break it. Problem solved.”

“If you—“ Dean swallowed. “—if you want.”

Sam’s voice—well, Sam’s voice through Dean’s vocal chords—softened. “Dean, we’re switching back.” His voice became teasing. “No way I can stand being this short for the rest of my life.”

It was an easy out. All Dean had to do was joke back that he was not short, darn it, and that Sam couldn’t handle his handsome mug.

He couldn’t quite make the joke though, as Sam took Dean’s arm (well, his own arm) and placed it on a flannel-clad elbow.

And then Dean was the one following Sam’s lead.

* * *

“Ah!”

“What, Sam?” Dean barked. He had a death-grip on the car door, but it wasn’t enough.

“Just . . . um, almost hit that car. I’m good though. We’re good. Promise.”

“Sam, you crash my car and I will murder you,” Dean told him sharply.

“We’re almost there. Um, yellow means slow, right?”

“Yellow means get ready to stop!” Dean said urgently.

There was a honking noise and a high-pitched laugh from the driver’s seat. “I hate driving.”

“Get us there alive. Please.”

Dean sighed in relief as the car jolted to a stop and Sam shut off the engine. “We’re alive.”

“Yeah, barely,” Sam muttered. “Okay, Dean. I’m going to go steal the artifact. You wait here, and I’ll be right back.”

“In front of everyone?” he asked in surprise.

“It’s already night,” Sam murmured. “Hang tight.”

He hadn’t even realized the entire day had passed. Dean’s laugh had a hysterical tinge to it, but thankfully, since Sam was gone, no one heard it. He waited anxiously, sighing in relief as Sam opened the door again.

“I got it. Sensors disabled, I think.”

“Good work. So now what?”

“Easy.” A calloused hand grasped Dean’s. “Hold here.”

“Wait. Sam.”

His brother paused. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure you don’t want . . . I mean, you don’t have to.”

“Dean.” Sam’s hand briefly touched Dean’s face. “It’s fine.”

His hand was firmly placed on a cold smooth surface. A strange warmth went through it, and Dean paused.

“Was that it?”

“Maybe. It took a couple hours for it to take effect last time, right?”

Dean sighed. “Can you put on some music?”

“That, I can do.”

* * *

“How do you not go crazy?”

Sam turned his head towards Dean. “What do you mean?”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “I felt like . . . I just felt lost,” he admitted feebly.

“I got used to it. I guess.” Sam shifted, a sure sign he wasn’t really comfortable with the conversation. “I’m kinda hungry.”

And diversion. Sam definitely wasn’t comfortable.

In a move that was totally out of his own comfort zone, Dean settled his hands on Sam’s knees and leaned forward. “Sam. I just want you to know that you are the strongest and bravest person I’ve ever known.”

“Christo?” Sam asked weakly.

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll have to make up for my momentary lapse in sanity.”

“What are you—“

Dean pounced, fingers attacking Sam’s sides until Sam was gasping for breaths between ridiculous high-pitched giggles.

“Dean, stop it, stop!” Sam begged, and after a while, Dean relented.

“Done questioning my right to praise my little brother?”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Sam gulped in air. “No more tickling though.”

Dean sighed dramatically. “Fine, princess.”


	6. Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ragnhild @ fanfiction.net: How about one small glimpse when Sam has just gone to Stanford. And Dean can't really let go?

“That’s the last one.”

Dean glanced up from the stitches to find John taking another hit from the bottle. “Close hunt,” John muttered.

“Yeah.” Dean patted his father’s leg and wrapped the bandage quickly.

“How long until we can get the next hunt taken care of?”

Dean gave him a considering look. “The stitches won’t hold for anything strenuous. If you have a research-heavy hunt lined up, then we should be good.”

“There’s a haunting. Probably a lot of research on the house.” John grunted and hitched himself higher on the bed. “You up for driving?”

“Sure.”

Dean let the pause drag out. They were only two hours away from Stanford. John and Sam had ended on such bad terms, but maybe . . .

“We could go check on Sam before we leave for the hunt,” Dean suggested cautiously.

John snorted. “We’re doing better than we ever have without having to drag him around,” he said callously. “It would be better for you to forget him, Dean.”

Rage shivered like fire along Dean’s veins. “Don’t say that,” he responded shortly. “Don’t you say that.”

John’s laughter was bitter and dark. “Kid up and left. I see no reason why we owe him anything.”

“It’s not about owing him something,” Dean snapped.

“Always holding us back,” John muttered.

Dean bit his lip so hard that blood flooded his mouth.

“I’m going for a walk,” he muttered. “Drink fluids.”

He turned and strode out of the room before he did something he would regret.

For a long while, he stood next to the Impala, staring down at its shiny black surface.

“Screw it,” Dean muttered. It was two hours. What would two hours hurt?

* * *

Sam woke up. He kept his breaths carefully measured, faking sleep.

There. The specific noise of the window being pried open. His roommate’s steady breathing was above him, and Sam slowly snuck a hand out to grab his knife.

The floorboard creaked next to Sam’s bed, and it took everything in Sam to keep his breathing steady.

He could feel the motion through his senses in the way the air moved and vibrations that brushed his skin—the way a hand was reaching out. With a sudden turn, Sam grabbed the limb and thrust forward the hand gripping his knife, pushing it up against a vulnerable neck.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he hissed.

“Sammy.”

Sam dropped his knife with a clatter.

“Dean?” he whispered. “What are you . . . what are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet your big brother?”

“S’m?”

Brady was waking up, and Sam winced. “Go back to sleep, Brady,” he murmured. “I’ve got it.”

Carefully, he rose, moving out of his dorm and into the hallway. Dean was his shadow.

“Is something wrong?” Sam asked, once he shut the door.

Dean’s laugh was all wrong. “No. I was just checking on you.”

Sam bristled. “Why? Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

“Sure.” Dean’s tone was as hard as Sam’s. Why had he come, if he wasn’t in trouble?

“Dean, what’s going on? I don’t understand.”

“Why did you leave?” The words punched out as if Dean didn’t really want to say them, but still did. Sam hesitated.

“I wanted to learn.”

“Right.”

Sam sighed. “Next time, don’t sneak in, alright? Whatever reason you’re here . . . I could’ve killed you.”

“Sure, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was almost acidic in its sarcasm, and Sam flinched back. This was why he had left in the first place. He was tearing them down, making everything worse. Dean would be far better once he realized that he didn’t have to care about what happened to Sam anymore.

“Well, that’s that then.” Sam reached back for his door. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Sam—“

He paused, waiting.

“Good luck with your classes.”

Subdued, Sam nodded. “You too, Dean. I—“ he ducked his head before deciding it didn’t really matter what Dean thought of him anymore. With a swift lunge, he caught his brother around the neck, inadvertently mashing his face into Dean’s neck. “I miss you,” he mumbled, so quickly he hoped Dean missed it, before quickly turning away and going back into his room.

“Who was that?” Brady sounded curious, and Sam stiffened in a kind of defensiveness.

“Friend.”

“Kay.”

It took Sam a long time to get back to sleep that night.


	7. Another One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CommChatter @ fanfiction.net: The first time Sam meets another blind person?

Sam drummed his fingers against the desk, quietly echoing some tune of Metallica that was running through his head. The problem with moving around all the time meant that half the time, he had already gone through the material. Sam had entered his new chem class to find the group to be far behind his old curriculum.

And so he sat here, bored.

The bell rang, and Sam waited for the class to file out so he wouldn’t have to battle the crowd.

“Sam, do you need any—“

“No thank you,” he interrupted. “I’m fine.”

Sam slung his book bag over his shoulder, stretching out arm and cane. He had scouted the school the evening before, so he knew where his next class was. Hopefully.

Three, two more steps. Sam entered.

“Hello? I’m Sam, I was told this is my next class.”

“Oh, Sam. Nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Smith, and we’ll be going through some history. Class won’t start for another ten minutes. Would you like to sit down? There are four columns of chairs—now, you can steal a chair in the back if you’d like, but you would be taking someone else’s chair.”

“There aren’t any open chairs?”

“Yes, but they’re all at the front. Everyone seems to like avoiding me.”

“I think I can manage,” Sam said drily. He slowly walked forward, hitting each chair one at a time.

“You know, I think you hold your cane too high above the ground. What type of end do you have?”

Sam froze. “I’m sorry?”

He heard his teacher get up, making more noise than he might expect.

“Did no one tell you? I’m also blind. If you don’t mind—“

Sam felt a hand on his own, tapping his knuckles his hand. “May I see your cane?”

“Of course.” Sam passed it over, hoping that Mr. Smith would not be perceptive enough to notice the extra weight of the hidden blade.

“I do have a lot of resources at my disposal—I know it can be difficult to find enough books in Braille. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in examining some of them?”

“Really?” Sam asked eagerly. “That would be . . . that would be fantastic.”

“Here’s your cane. Is this your last class of the day?”

“Yes sir.”

“Stay after, and we’ll arrange something. Have you ever gone to a school for the blind before?”

“No, never. I . . . it’s been two and a half years since I was blinded. I’ve never even met anyone else who . . . You’re really blind?”

Mr. Smith’s laugh was warm. “Yeah, Sam. You and I are going to figure something out. We have to stick together, right?”

“Yes sir,” Sam said, and the familiar phrase held none of his usual ire at having to obey his father.

* * *

“I’m telling you, Dean, he could really help me. He’s a teacher. And he went to college, and he knows all about going to school—he was actually blind from birth.”

Dean shifted, trying to keep his distrust out of his voice. “That’s great, Sammy. But I’m still coming along to make sure he’s legit.”

“You don’t trust me?” Sam asked reproachfully.

“Course I do, geek, but I’m just making one hundred percent sure this guy isn’t gonna try something.”

“You worry too much, Dean.”

“So it’s been said.” Dean grinned at his little brother, knowing he could hear it in his voice. “We’re here.”

“Yes, the car has stopped. Wow. It’s a miracle,” Sam deadpanned.

“Watch it, twerp.”

Dean rolled into the teacher’s driveway, glancing distrustfully at the clean garden.

“Stepford-looking kind of place,” he muttered.

If Sam could, Dean knew he would be rolling his eyes. “C’mon, c’mon,” he prompted impatiently.

“Keep your pants on.” Dean circled the car, offering his elbow to Sam. “Let’s go see how geeky you can be in one hour.”

The door open at the second ring, a smiling woman drying her hands off on her apron. Stepford, way too Stepford.

“You must be Sam,” she said. “My husband’s been expecting you. You are—“

“—his brother, Dean.”

The woman’s smile was congenial. “Would you like to join me in the kitchen? Sam can go to the study.”

“I’ll be sticking with him,” Dean said firmly. “That’s my condition.”

Her smile grew a little more understanding. “You’re a good brother, Dean.”

Dean felt his ears heating up from his embarrassment—he would be eternally grateful whenever he could finally grow out of that habit.

“Don’t compliment him, he’ll get a big head,” Sam grinned. Dean shoved him lightly, and the two of them moved further into the house.

“Sam, glad you could make it.” Dean watched warily as the older man stood, reaching out his hand. “And are you Dean?”

“How’d you know?” he asked suspiciously.

“Sam mentioned he had an older brother, and you’re about six feet tall and younger. Process of elimination.”

Impressed, Dean crossed his arms. “Yeah? How’d you know that?”

The teacher grinned. “It’s all about listening, kid. Now, Sam, how’s your Shakespeare?”

* * *

“So you’re happy, Sam?”

“I suppose.” Sam took his hands off of the page. “Why?”

Mr. Smith’s voice was cautious. “You never talk about your father, or really explain why you move around so much. Your situation is not ideal, Sam, that much is clear. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sam grimaced. “It’s not that bad,” he hedged. “Look, everything you’ve given me—the books, the training . . . it means everything to me. You’re helping a lot.”

Sam could feel the way Mr. Smith was leaning forward. “And I’m glad of that. I just think I could help more.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

“What about college?”

Sam went still. “What do you mean?”

“You may be trapped right now. But how about after you graduate?”

“Blind people don’t go to college,” Sam laughed.

“How do you think I became a teacher?” Mr. Smith asked coolly. Sam felt his face heat up.

“Sorry,” he uttered repentantly.

“Nothing to apologize for.” Mr. Smith put a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, don’t limit yourself. You may not be able to see the stars, but that doesn’t mean you can’t reach for them like others.”

Sam ducked his head. “Yes sir.”


	8. Desperate Straits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterymadchen @ fanfiction.net: Sam having to risk his life to save and take care of his big brother

Sam mopped at Dean’s brow one more time, beginning to feel real fear. 

“Dean, what do I do?” he asked once again, but Dean’s ramblings only picked up in volume slightly before going back to a quiet discussion on the benefits of shotguns. 

Sam bit his lip. Dean’s fever was too high. Maybe? He couldn’t actually read any temperature read-outs, so he would have to rely on his senses. 

And he really had no idea. 

Dean needed medicine, right? 

Sam reached for his cane, petting Dean’s sweaty hair one more time. “I’ll be right back, Dean,” he promised. “I’ll get you some medicine, kay?” 

Cold wind hit him as soon as he opened the door. Shivering, Sam slipped outside. 

Sam took two steps and made it onto the parking lot. Another twenty steps, and he found the edge of the parking lot. A car roared past, sending Sam a step back again. 

“It’s just a road,” he whispered to himself. “It’s just a road.” 

He listened, waiting until it seemed quiet. 

And then he darted forward. 

A car honking nearly frightened Sam out of his wits, but he continued forward until he tripped against the curb on the other side. 

Breathing shakily, Sam made his way inside. 

“Excuse me?” he ventured. “Could I get some help?” 

The person at the register sighed. “What is it, kid?” 

“My brother’s sick. Do you have medicine?” 

“Aisle three.” 

“Please, I don’t know which one to get,” Sam told the cashier desperately. “He has a fever, and he’s sweating, and he’s incoherent.” 

“You should take him to a hospital.” The voice was disinterested. 

“I can’t, please help me,” Sam cried. 

“Hey, hang on here. What is it this young man needs?” A new voice butted in. 

“Medicine for my brother. Please.” 

“I’ll help you. Take my hand.” 

Uncomfortably, Sam grasped the proffered clammy hand. “Um, thank you?” 

“Come over this way. Look, we’ll grab some medicine, here. These should do it.” 

Sam was tugged back towards the register, his cane knocking against the floor. Bottles clattered to the counter. 

“That’ll be twenty five dollars and thirteen cents.” 

Sam rummaged in his pocket, dumping out everything he had. 

“Not enough, kid.” 

“I’ve got it.” The congenial voice of the older man interrupted again. 

“Thank you,” Sam whispered. 

“It’s the least I could do. Where do you live? Did you walk here, or did you take a cab?” 

“I’m close. It’s fine.” 

“I’ll walk you back.” 

Sam exited the store, following the man. 

“I need to cross the street.” 

It was a lot easier with a guide. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they made it. 

“Thanks for all of your help.” 

“Hang on, there.” The man halted. 

Sam froze. “What?” 

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” 

Sam pulled his hand out of the man’s. “Um, I just did, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I don’t have any money to pay you back, but I—“ 

“That’s not the kind of payment I’m looking for.” The man yanked Sam close in a way that left Sam with a complete picture of the man’s intentions. Sam cried out in fear and anger, slamming his fist into the guy’s solar plexus and his heel into his instep. The man howled in pain, and Sam finished off by kneeing him in the groin. 

Sam didn’t stick around as the man—the friggin’ pervert—collapsed, swiftly crossing the mostly-empty parking lot and going straight to the motel. 

But he couldn’t go back to the room; he would lead the freak right back to Dean. 

In a panic, Sam went to the right, finding a room that was about two doors away from theirs. He knocked, but there was no response. Swiftly, Sam dug through his pockets, fishing out his lock-pick set. 

His fingers were sweaty in fear. Any second, and a meaty hand would come slamming down on his shoulder, and Sam would— 

There. The door opened, and Sam slammed it shut behind him, crossing the room to the back window. It was sticky with rust, but Sam managed to open it enough to slip out, dragging his cane and the medicine behind him. 

He made it to their window, knocking against it desperately. 

“Dean, c’mon, please, be awake, please please please—“ 

“S’mmy?” Dean’s voice was muted by the glass. 

“Open the window, Dean,” Sam pleaded. 

The click of the lock was the best sound Sam had ever heard. He nearly ripped off his fingernails in his scramble to pry open the window. Sam scrambled inside, quickly shoving down the window behind him and re-locking it. 

“We have to—we have to lock the room,” Sam gasped, stumbling across the room to the door. His trembling hands found the door locked and he sighed in relief. 

“S’m, wha’s wrong?” 

Sam froze, spinning and reaching out. “Dean? C’mon, you have to be in bed. Look, I have medicine, okay? Lie down.” 

“How’d you get medicine?” 

Dean was sounding a little clearer, and Sam could not handle a cross-examination right now. 

“Lie down, Dean. Here.” Sam ripped open one of the bottles. “Take some of this.” 

“Y’r a good kid, S’mmy.” 

“Thanks,” Sam whispered. He felt Dean slump against the pillows, and he placed a careful hand against his brother’s forehead. 

“We’re going to be okay, Dean, it’s fine,” he said, both for Dean and himself. He shivered in fear; sharing germs or not, he pushed in close to his brother’s overheated body, hugging him close. “We’ll be fine,” he whispered. Maybe if he said it enough, it would be true.


	9. Pool Cues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in-silent-seas @ fanfiction.net: Duuuude I love outsider povs. They make me so happy sometimes. If you felt like it perhaps you could do another. Maybe a time where Dean has to help Sam in public or something

Rick sighed, itching at his stubbled jawline. It was boring, being the designated driver. His friend was past the mellow stage and far into the obnoxious loud drunken stage. Still, at least he wasn’t at home alone, waking up after another rough night of bad dreams.

“Wanna call it a night?” Rick suggested to Ben.

Ben grinned at him. “Duuuude, the party’s just started!”

Rick sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

A whoop went up near the pool tables, and Rick turned to see a man in a leather jacket grin and hold out a hand. His opponent was a large man—trucker, from the look of him—and was very unhappy.

“Ooh, there’s gonna be a fiiiight,” Ben slurred. “Wanna bet on who wins?”

As they watched, another man entered the scene. Guy was taller than both of the other two, and pressed in close to the leather-jacket-guy.

“Look, it was just a game. You agreed to it, right?”

The tall one’s voice was clear and reasonable . . . not the best combination with angry drunks.

Sure enough, the trucker shoved him—Rick was surprised to see the guy go sprawling, rather than holding his ground. That was when the man’s face rolled his way, and the glasses slipped off.

Rick whistled. He was blind.

“You take your disabled freak and get out of here,” the trucker snarled.

The leather-clad one had gone completely still, a tension that Rick could read from across the room.

“You should not have done that.” The guy’s voice was quiet, but it carried. A second later, and he had lunged, striking quick and fast. Rick admired his form.

“Hey! You yahoos take it out of my bar!”

There was the distinctive noise of a shotgun, and Rick pulled Ben back out of the bartender’s path. The three scuffling froze in some strange snapshot of their fight, the blind one tense and blocking the bartender’s gun from pointing at the other guy.

“Sammy, get back,” the leather jacket one growled.

“Go on, out!”

“Ben, c’mon,” Rick muttered, dragging his inebriated friend away from some girl he was starting to chat up.

“Maaan, you suck.”

“Uh huh.” Rick kept an eye on the blind kid shuffling out, and on the others that trailed them—the trucker looked like he had friends.

“You girls want to try that again?” the trucker growled.

The leather-clad one smirked. “What d’you think, Sammy? Think we can take these bozos?”

“Dean, c’mon, I told you we shouldn’t hustle tonight.”

“Three, I’ve got the two left, right one at two o’clock.”

“Fine, fine.”

Rick opened his mouth to offer assistance of some kind, but the two sprang into action before he could. The one named Dean kicked the middle trucker in the stomach while backhanding the other before slamming them down to the ground. The blind one—Sammy?—darted forward, barreling straight into the trucker and taking him to the ground. Rick gaped, watching as he expertly twisted the man’s arm and kept continuous contact while knocking the living daylights out of the guy.

Next to him, Ben swore.

“Nice one, Sammy,” Dean praised.

“Could you stop fighting with the civilians?” the blind one asked exasperatedly.

“Dude! How’d you do that!” Ben’s voice was overly loud, and instantly the two of them whirled, looking like they were ready for round two.

“What’s it to you?” Dean challenged.

Rick didn’t care for the belligerence, and pulled Ben away. “Hey, we’re good. Just thought you guys had some cool moves.”

“You’re blind? Maan, how’d you do that?” Ben gaped. Rick wanted to hit himself in the face. He settled for hitting Ben.

The guy smiled bemusedly. “C’mon, Dean, let’s get out of here.”

Dean glared at them, and Rick tried his best to look humble and inoffensive.

“You are such an idiot,” Rick growled at Ben.

“Ughhh, I don’t feel good.”

Rick sighed. “Let’s get you home, huh?”

He caught sight of the two guys getting into an awesome black car—Rick wasn’t one for cars, himself, but for that, maybe he would be.

Ben started throwing up, and Rick wrinkled his nose. He had other things to do tonight. “Gross, dude.”

When he looked up again, the car was gone.

* * *

Rick woke up gasping, heart galloping and his chest aching.

A crash downstairs told him why he had been startled awake.

Rick grabbed his baseball bat—leftover from high school—and crept down the stairs.

“I’m telling you, Dean, the research was right. Houses all around the starting point of the curse are affected, this one has got to be it.”

“Yeah, well, next time you’re staying behind.”

“I didn’t mean to break it!”

“Hey!” Rick’s voice came out a little too squeaky to be intimidating, but he hefted the bat anyway. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Flicking on the lights, Rick blinked as he saw the two from the other night. “You?”

Leather-jacket-guy—Dean—grinned sheepishly. “Uh, hi. How are you doing?”

“What the—“

“Do you live here alone?” the blind one interjected.

Rick swallowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“They target lonely people.” Rick saw Dean give the blind one—Sam, that was it—a sharp look.

“You two are nut jobs. I’m calling the police,” he said.

“You’ve been having nightmares.” Sam’s voice was so convicted, so certain, that Rick stopped.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nightmares. Separate the word into two. Night Mares. They plague lonely people, suck up their energy. You’ve been exhausted lately, right?”

Rick weakly supplied, “I haven’t been sleeping well. That’s why I’m tired.”

The leather one stepped up. “Let us help. It’s a simple ritual, and then we’ll be gone. C’mon, promise, it won’t hurt.”

The blind one shuffled forward slightly, holding out a bag. “Keep this in the house for twenty-four hours.”

Dean smoothly took the bag from his companion’s hand as Rick made no move to take it. “We’ll need to prick your finger. Blood. Strong stuff.”

“Crazy,” Rick whispered.

The blind kid began chanting in another language. Dean held out a penknife for Rick to take.

“I do this, and you’ll leave?” he asked suspiciously.

“Cross my heart,” Dean grinned.

Slowly, Rick cut his thumb. He glared at the two. “Were you planning on cutting me even if I didn’t wake up?”

“Yup,” Dean said casually, sticking his hands in his pocket. “Sam, we good?”

Sam seemed to wrap up his mumbo-jumbo and nodded.

“Happy dreams.”

Rick watched them leave, feeling rather dazed. What a bunch of whack-jobs.

But his nightmares disappeared. And Rick wondered.


	10. Wheels Keep Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am trash and combined prompts. Also, this follows Splintered Fear.  
> @ fanfiction.net:  
> persianflower: you could maybe write sthg. about bobby's reaction(s) to sam's blindness and how -you think- he'd handle it over the years? [perhaps even in comparison to john?]  
> kittyfan12: what about if Sam had an injury that required him to be in a wheel chair? I dunno, just thought the emotions with that situation would be interesting.

“Thanks for this, Bobby, I owe you one.”

Bobby grunted, his eyes on the sons rather than the father. Dean was kneeling in front of Sam, murmuring words that Bobby couldn’t hear.

“Dean, we need to go.”

Bobby turned away, giving them some privacy as Dean embraced Sam.

“Bobby, you take care of him.” Dean stood in front of Bobby. Bobby wasn’t exactly intimidated by the kid, but now that Dean was taller than him, it was easy to see how much power Dean was able to show.

“You know I will,” he said gruffly.

Dean glanced one more time at Sam—something close to anguish in his face—before following his father.

“Well, Sam, looks like it’s the two of us.”

“Yes sir.” Sam looked scrawny in his wheelchair, almost sixteen, yet hadn’t quite hit a decent growth spurt yet.

“Why don’t we get you inside?” Bobby suggested.

Sam nodded his head, a slow submissiveness that Bobby couldn’t remember Sam ever having before he was . . . well, before he turned thirteen.

Bobby carefully wheeled Sam up the boards he had laid down to get up the porch. Sam docilely let him, keeping his hands in his lap.

“Care to clue me in? How’d you bust your foot?” Bobby asked, trying to get Sam to open up.

Sam ran a hand across his mouth. “Fell down some stairs at school,” he muttered.

“Ah,” Bobby said knowledgeably. “Not a tale for the ladies then. Shall we come up with a cover story?”

He surprised a laugh out of Sam. “That’s okay,” he said, smiling a little.

Bobby carefully maneuvered Sam and his wheelchair through his semi-cleaned up house. “Okay, Sam, so how ‘bout we set some ground rules? You don’t push yourself and try to get around without your wheelchair. I will not have Dean kill me because you’ve screwed up your foot worse. So that means you will not feel bad about asking me for anything, yeah?”

Sam shifted, but nodded jerkily.

“Rule two. If you’re bored, tell me. I may be an old man, but I can still come up with some stuff to keep you occupied.”

Sam nodded again. Bobby had been hoping for some verbal response, but he would take what he could get.

“It’s nearly lunch. You want a sandwich?”

“Yes sir.”

* * *

There were awkward moments. Bobby wasn’t so hot with the whole . . . well, the whole being a good—not father—caretaker. Whatever. He had tried to get Sam in the shower and ended up dumping him on the floor by accident. More often than not, Sam refused any food, and with how skinny the kid was, Sam could not afford to skip meals. And conversation was pretty awkward.

Not to mention, the wheelchair was unwieldy and ridiculously hard to get around.

“I’m going to go grab us some pizza, Sam.”

In the past, Bobby could remember how Dean would have loudly declared his choices to be pepperoni, while Sam would have whined that Hawaiian was the best.

Now, Sam just nodded.

“What kind?” Bobby prompted.

“Whatever you like. I don’t care,” Sam said.

Bobby gave in, leaving with a sigh.

* * *

The house he returned to was dark as the night outside. Bobby started feeling alarmed before he rolled his eyes at himself. Sam didn’t need the light, of course he wouldn’t turn them on.

“Sam? I’m back.”

“Bobby.” Sam’s voice sounded . . . off. “Help.”

Bobby flicked the lights on, alarmed, and gasped.

“Sam!” Bobby darted forward, immediately pulling at the heavy drawing table that pinned him. “What happened?”

“Tried to stand, hop around. Dragged it down on top of me.” Sam grunted in pain as Bobby gently turned him onto his back.

“Man, those are some nasty bruises,” Bobby muttered. “C’mon, we’ll get you some ice, huh?”

“Sorry,” Sam apologized as Bobby lowered him onto the couch.

“Sam, nothing to be sorry about. ‘Cept for trying to get ahead of yourself, there. C’mon, hang there. I’ll get you fixed up.”

For a moment, Bobby watched as Sam shrank in on himself, practically apologetic for his existence. Gently, he laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and then moved off to find some pain meds and ice.

* * *

Time passed almost . . . well, if Bobby was honest, it was slow. Sam couldn’t do much beyond read his books in Braille, and Bobby could only offer food and read aloud when the silence became too stifling.

Bobby never had been good with words.

“Bobby, I have a question.”

He could almost miss the days when he was Uncle Bobby. Snapping his book shut, Bobby turned to Sam. “Yeah, Sam?”

“How did my mother die?”

Bobby blinked. “You—you don’t know?”

Sam shrugged. “Before I was blinded, the journal was always in Dad’s hands, and Dean never said anything. When we translated the journal into Braille, he skipped the section he has on that.”

“Oh.” Bobby shifted. “I’m not sure if I’m the right person to talk about this, kid.”

“You’re the only person.” Sam’s face in that moment was old and tired. “And I need to know. You know that I do.”

Bobby’s sigh felt like it was torn out of him. “Okay, kid. Well, I heard it secondhand, you hear? Your pa went to Missouri first, a known psychic in Lawrence. She steered him to Pastor Jim, and he told me.”

“Yeah?”

“Your dad was asleep downstairs when he heard the fire. He came into your room and your mom was on the ceiling. Slice across the belly and fire behind her until it caught her as well.”

Sam swallowed. “And no sign of what did it?”

“If there was, John never said anything.” Bobby carefully observed Sam. “Why the curiosity?”

Sam’s expression was entirely fake in its wry joviality. “Wouldn’t you be curious?”

Bobby frowned. “Sure, Sam.” He had some work to do, so he raised himself with a groan.

A thought occurred to him, and Bobby turned back from where he had been leaving to go work on the cars. “Sam, you know it wasn’t your fault.”

Yahtzee. Sam had frozen, face caught in an expression that Bobby used to equate to Sammy stealing cookies from the cupboard.

“I don’t—“ Sam started.

“Sam. C’mon, boy. You were only a baby. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was in my room,” Sam stated.

“Yeah. Well, that don’t mean nothing when it comes to supernatural things, you hear me? Your mom was trying to protect you, if anything, and that does not mean it was your fault. It just means she loved you a lot.”

Sam had deliberately turned his wheelchair so that Bobby couldn’t see his face.

“Okay. I’m gonna go take a nap,” he said shakily.

Bobby took an awkward step forward, resting his hand briefly on Sam’s tousled hair. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam murmured as he left.

“Anytime, kid,” Bobby said, and surprised himself with how he actually meant it.


	11. Muted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahsati @ fanfiction.net: an ear infection (or something supernatural) leaves Sam with temporary poor or inexistent hearing sense

The first hint Dean got that something was wrong was Sam falling out of bed.

“Sam?”

His brother didn’t respond, instead levering himself onto hands and knees, shaking slightly.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was tentative in a way that made Dean fearful in spite of himself. Sam had probably just woken up from a nightmare.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Dean knelt next to Sam, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Sam’s reaction made Dean fall back on his rear, as Sam shoved his hand away, yelling in fright—anger?—and scrambling away.

“Get back! Who are you? What did you do to me?”

Dean gaped at him. “Dude, what’s your deal?”

Sam was fumbling, arm finding the bed. His movement was a swift lunge, throwing himself onto the bed and slipping his gun out from under his pillow.

“Stay away from me and tell me where Dean is!”

“Sam, it’s me.”

With one hand, Sam reached up to his ear, rubbing at it with a frown. “What did you do to me?”

“Sam . . .” Dean kept a careful eye on Sam’s gun, slowly moving forward. Sam obviously had no idea what was going on, and neither did Dean.

“I swear, if you hurt my brother, I will kill you.”

Right. This had passed far beyond territory Dean was comfortable with. He slammed into Sam, pushing the gun hand aside, blocking Sam’s fist with his other.

“Sammy! It’s me, stop it!” Dean growled, but Sam wasn’t listening. With a grunt, Dean absorbed the knee to the gut and snagged Sam’s left hand, pulling it close to Dean’s chest, against the amulet.

Sam froze, fist uncurling and softly touching the amulet. “Dean?” he asked.

Dean took his hand and moved it to his face, letting Sam know it was him.

“Dean, I can’t . . .why can’t I hear you?”

“I dunno," Dean answered automatically. He groaned when he realized Sam couldn’t hear him, and instead put Sam’s hand on his shoulder so he would feel Dean’s shrug.

“My head’s killing me,” Sam told him.

Dean frowned, gently maneuvering Sam’s head to peek at Sam’s ears. Were they supposed to be that red on the inside?

“Maybe we should get you checked out,” he muttered. Carefully, he traced out ‘doctor?’ on Sam’s palm.

Sam shook his head, looking a little green after he did so. “Probably ear infection,” he said too loudly.

“Can you hear me at all?” Dean asked. When he didn’t get any response, he sighed. “This is gonna be real fun, I can tell.”

* * *

His head felt heavy and light, full of hot air. Sam couldn’t remember feeling so disoriented since . . . well, since he was first blinded. He relied so heavily on hearing. What if he never got his hearing back? What if it was damaged, and he would be forever blind and deaf, completely helpless, as if he hadn’t been helpless enough before.

“Dean?” he called.

There was no response, and Sam felt terror writhe in his insides. It was fine. Dean was just going to the bar. Or getting some food.

Slowly, Sam stood, not able to hear the bedspread shifting from his motion. A step. No echo to read his location to other objects. Another step.

He had to get out of the room. Sam hid his gun in his jacket and shrugged it on. He could do this.

There was warmth. The sun. A light breeze that made his hair pull across his forehead.

No sound, though. No indication of anything or anyone.

It should have been peaceful, but Sam just found it terrifyingly lonely.

Someone bumped into him, and Sam had to force himself not to completely freak.

How could he even be worth anything? Like this, he was practically a vegetable. Pull the plug already, right?

A warm hand fell on his neck, and Sam flinched before another hand dragged Sam’s to the amulet.

“Dean,” Sam murmured.

There was no response, but Sam could sense his brother anyway. Hands propelled him forward, back towards the room. Sam struggled a little, shaking his head.

“Too close. Can’t feel anything in there,” he said.

Dean turned Sam, taking him in some other direction. Leaning on Dean heavily, Sam tried to use his other senses to get a feel for his surroundings, but there was no chance.

When Sam was settled inside the Impala, a weight dropped off of him. He was safe.

The car started, and Sam jerked in surprise. Duh. Of course they would be going somewhere. But where?

“Where are we going?” Sam asked into the silence.

His hand was taken, and a ‘B’ traced out.

“No, Dean,” Sam said urgently. “C’mon, no.”

‘Y?’

“I can’t have Bobby . . .” Sam nearly swallowed his words, but continued through. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Dean’s hand came down gently on Sam’s aching head. Sam had no way of knowing whether Dean would ignore his opinion or not, but when it came down to it, he trusted his brother. That was all he had to remember. Pills were placed in his hand, and Sam docilely swallowed them. The thrum of vibrations went through the car in a beat Sam knew better than his own heartbeat. He could imagine Dean singing along to the Metallica soundtrack, and he smiled. Everything was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty short, but I wrote this during a dry spell as far as fic writing goes. Thanks for reading :)


	12. Practice Rounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> authorwannabe101 @ fanfiction.net: I was wondering if you would do the beginning of "All Hell Breaks Loose". You started Grand Arena off with the dream of the YED, and I was hoping that you would do when Sam first woke up, how he handled it, what the others thought of him being blind, stuff like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essentially the prelude to Grand Arena, my take on AHBL

“I can go get it, man.”

Dean sat back. “Yeah? Thanks. We’re twenty steps away, door’s on the right side of the building. You get out, walk straight, and it’ll be on your left.”

Sam nodded, smiling and got out.

“Pie, Sammy! Don’t forget my pie!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sam picked his way carefully up to the building, Dean humming with his music while he waited.

The radio started going out, and Dean frowned, tapping it impatiently. Sam was the one who knew where the tapes were buried among their stuff. He’d better hurry back.

Dean looked up and a wave of fear washed over him.

“Sam!” he called, even though he was still inside the Impala. Stumbling out, he ran into the building, finding the bodies of customers and workers lying in their own blood.

And no Sam.

* * *

Sam mumbled, “Dean,” but got no response. That was strange.

He was sleeping on wood boards. That was also strange.

Slowly, he sat up, feeling the rough splinters under his fingertips. “Dean!” he called.

His voice echoed strangely. Wherever he was, it was a wide, open space. He carefully got to his feet, taking slow steps forward across the floor or deck.

“Dean!” he tried again. Nothing.

Sam let himself be quiet for a long while, trying to sense his surroundings as best as he could.

A scream broke the slightly zen state Sam had achieved and he stumbled against the house.

Sam pushed forward through the vast space, forcing his own panic down. Someone needed help. He could help them.

He found the door, trembling fingers finding the lock.

“Hey, hey, stop yelling. Hang on, I’ll get it.” He pulled out his lock picks from his back pocket and got to work. Twenty seconds. Dean would’ve been proud, if he wasn’t probably dead.

“Sam?”

Sam backed up into a defensive posture. “Who’s there?”

“Sam, it’s me, Andy.”

“Andy?”

“Yeah, man.” A hand came out of nowhere, landing on his arm. Sam flinched and it disappeared. “Sorry. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

Another shriek filled the air.

“Sam?”

“Lead me to them,” Sam commanded. Andy’s hand awkwardly landed on his arm again and Sam shifted his grip, grasping Andy’s elbow himself. “Just walk. I can handle it.”

Door number two had Ava behind it.

Sam didn’t like the way this was going.

It was easier to let the soldier—Jake, Sam thought his name was—to take charge and lead the group. Sam wasn’t willing to step in and voice his opinions, despite the way Andy kept hovering near him.

“Sam, what do you think?” Ava blurted out.

The others went silent, and Sam grimaced. “I think the demon’s gathered us together for a reason. We have to stick together, try and protect each other from whatever’s coming.”

“A demon. Are you crazy?” One girl whose name Sam couldn’t remember sounded caustically disbelieving.

“No, I’m not. Did you think your abilities came from thin air?” Sam snapped. “My brother could be dead thanks to this thing. So believe me or not, but if you’re not ready, you will die.”

“Sam, what do we do?” Andy asked, voice hushed.

Sam took a deep breath. “We need to find weapons. Anything iron. Salt, if there is any.”

“You’re crazy. You’re all crazy,” the girl said again.

“Hey, we shouldn’t just dismiss—“

“I’m out of here.”

Sam could only listen as she left. The others stood silently, yet frightened and tense—Sam could hear it in their breathing.

“Alright,” he said firmly. “Find the weapons.”

The wind picked up a little. A ghostly shriek rent the air, and Sam growled, “hurry.”

A heavy poker was thrust into his hand. “Sam, what is that?” Andy’s voice was shrill.

“Where is it?” Sam growled.

“In front of us, it’s gonna kill us, oh—“

Sam slashed out, the heavy rush of sulfur telling him he had just dissipated the demon.

“So, I think I speak for all of us when I say we believe you,” Jake said.

“We need to find the other girl,” he said.

“Um, it’s a little late for that.” Sam felt Jake approach his shoulder, and automatically stiffened. “She’s been hanged.”

* * *

Jake’s voice startled him. “It’s impressive.”

Sam gripped his piece of iron a little tighter. “What is?”

“The way you move, get around . . . were you blind from birth?”

The questions Sam got about his blindness had varied through the years from insensitive and curious to removed and awkward. It was nice to get someone straightforward, from time to time.

“Nah. When I was thirteen. Monster sucked my eyesight. No, I’m not making it up.”

“Wow. And you kept going, kept . . . you called it hunting?” Jake asked.

Sam shrugged halfheartedly. “I’m mostly deadweight, but I help out my brother when I can.” Jake was silent for a moment, and Sam finally asked. “I know everyone else’s, but your ability, what is it?”

“Strength. Here.” Jake took Sam’s makeshift cane from his hand and grunted, a strange creaking sound emitted as well. He passed it back, and Sam found it bent in half.

“That’s a skill that would come in handy,” Sam murmured. Jake straightened it out for him and took Sam’s elbow.

“Helped me save some lives. We should get back to the others.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re scared.”

Sam jerked to a halt. “No, I’m—“

“It’s okay. I get it, you’re the expert here, and those other kids look up to you. That’s great. But I know what it’s like, leading because you have to, not because you want to.”

Sam choked out a laugh. “Yeah. My brother, he’s the leader. And he could be . . . he could be dead, I just don’t know anymore.”

“Well, in any case, I’m glad that you’re on my side, Sam.”

“Same to you, Jake.” Sam let Jake lead him forward, silently breathing a prayer that Dean was okay, no matter what. Sam couldn’t live with himself if Dean was gone.


	13. Bleak Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shannanigans @fanfiction.net: Drunk or drugged and blind would be interesting...  
> ended up sort of following Graduation Day (the first story in Day By Day).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stereotypical rich kids jerks are stereotypical. Sorry.   
> Also, do I get bonus points for doing both drugged and drunk? :D

“This is great, isn’t it Sammy?” Dean looped an arm around his little brother. “You’re finally free, and we can roam the good ol’ USA without anything to stop us.”

“Dean . . .” Sam started.

“I know that ‘Dean.’ That’s the ‘I hate being fun and want to go home’ voice. Dude, live a little! You were valedictorian, c’mon, that’s gotta be cause for celebration, right? Look at all these geek high schoolers celebrating, and you’re one of them, right?”

“Yeah, but—“

“No buts. Unless you wanna get laid. You wanna get laid? I can find you a girl, huh?” Dean sloppily took a pull from his beer. “I should find myself a girl too.”

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your celebrating, but I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yo, Sam the man!”

Dean turned, dragging Sam with him, to survey some high school jock. “Who’re you?” he asked, semi-belligerently. No one was allowed to give Sam nicknames except for Dean.

“Eliot?” Sam asked.

“Dude, your name’s Eliot?” Dean snorted.

The guy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Nothing, cool name.” Dean grinned and ruffled Sammy’s hair. “This your friend, Sammy?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam’s minute frown. “I mean, sure, we were in English together, but—“

“Hey, man, let’s go find the others, huh? We’ve been looking for you.”

“Sammy, I’ll catch up with you later, bro.” Dean good-naturedly shoved Sam into the arms of his friend. “I’m gonna go out back, if you know what I mean.” He watched Eliot lead Sam away, frowning momentarily as Eliot let Sam hit his hip on the corner of a chair. “Incompetent idiot,” he muttered.

“Hope you’re not talking about me.”

Dean let his gaze glide appreciatively up the girl’s body. If she was legal, he was so interested. “Darlin’, not even close.”

* * *

“Hey guys, it’s Sam!”

“Oh, Saaaam.”

“Hey,” Sam said, awkwardly. They had been at this school for a semester, and he had only barely been able to pin voices to identities. Drunk and slurred voices were impossible to place.

“Um, I’m thinking you don’t know who we are. So I’m Marcie, that’s Derrick, and Eliot’s the one whose arm you’re holding like a bad prom date.” The girl’s voice was caustically slow and exaggerated, like he was a baby. Sam snatched his hand away from Eliot’s elbow and felt the heat rise in his face.

“Marcie, you’re so mean! Here Sam, you know me, I’m Sarah. Here, have a drink.”

Sam took the shot glass, murmuring thanks and downing it, trying to hide his distaste.

“Well, Mr. Valedictorian is a little less of an uptight snitch than we thought.”

“Snitch?” Sam repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Like you’re going to pretend that you’re not the one who told the principal about Eliot’s drugs.”

“What? I didn’t even know.”

“Can it, Winchester, we saw you outside his office,” Derrick sniped.

“Talking about transferring my credits,” Sam insisted. A little off-balance, he put a hand out for support on the table.

“Yeah, teacher’s pet. Don’t think I’m over that,” Marcie snarled. “I was all set for valedictorian, but you swoop in and take it. My parents won’t get me a car now.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, slurring slightly. He had only had one beer while with Dean, and the shot just now, he wasn’t sure why he felt so off. It was like the first injury he had ever gotten, when he was twelve, and the ghost had broken his arm, and the alcohol Dad and Dean had given him had made him feel strange.

“Dude, what are you talking about?” Eliot laughed.

Whoops, did he say that aloud?

“Hey, let’s go outside, man.”

Hands crowded him, pushing him through the noisy house.

“Wait, Dean,” Sam mumbled.

“Dean, is that your boyfriend? Cute. Well, he’s ditched you for the cheerleaders, so I guess you bet on the wrong guy there, didn’t you?” Sarah giggled.

“No, he’s—“

Sam felt a foot slam into the tender back of his knee, dead-legging him and sending him to the ground. Soft grass caught his fall. They must be in the backyard.

“C’mon guys, let’s have some fun.”

“I dunno, doesn’t seem fair,” Eliot said. “But he wasn’t being fair when he came in and screwed us over.”

A foot slammed into Sam’s stomach, and he convulsively threw up.

“Ew,” Marcie whined. “C’mon, let’s just take his clothes, make him run around naked or something.”

Hands grabbed at Sam, and he struggled, fighting the strange lassitude and dizziness.

“How’s that feel, valedictorian?”

“Wanna give your speech now?”

A voice broke through the confusing haze. “You’re all dead.” Dean was here. It was okay.

* * *

When Sam had gone into the corner with his friends, Dean had been relatively pleased. Sam had a tendency to hang out at home rather than try and branch out at schools, so it was good he could finish on a good note at this last time in school.

Then he had been busy for a bit with a rather cute cheerleader—legal, he wasn’t an animal—and hadn’t thought of Sam for a while.

The next time he looked up, Sam had disappeared, along with his friends. Probably just hanging out, but Dean hated having Sam out of his sight, so he meandered through the crowd, the pulsing music keeping him from calling out for his brother.

The lack of Sam made his search a little more focused.

By the time he found him, adrenaline was pumping through Dean’s body, threatening violence.

And then he saw them.

There had been several times in his life when he’d seen red, and each time it had to do with Sam and the crap his little brother had to go through.

Seeing him being mocked and stripped naked by a bunch of coward kids had to top the charts though.

“You’re all dead,” he snarled. The smarter ones in the group—even though they were all obviously brainless idiots—looked around.

The others kept screwing with Sam.

Dean wasn’t sure what happened next, but when it was over, he was standing with the whimpering high schoolers pissing themselves in the lawn around him.

Dean had one priority, and it wasn’t them.

“Sammy,” he breathed, dropping onto a knee beside his brother.

“Deeean.” Sam’s motions were odd and twitchy. “Deeeaaan, I’m coooold.”

“Yeah, bro.” Dean shrugged off his jacket and pulled it over Sam’s scrawny shoulders. One of the girls had scrawled an obscenity across his upper back. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Okaaaay.”

Gently, he helped Sam to his feet . . . sort of. Sam kept listing to one side, forcing Dean to keep an arm wrapped around his waist.

“How ‘bout we get your pants back on?” Dean suggested.

“Pants are good,” Sam said solemnly.

“They drug you, kiddo?” He had no way to check Sam’s pupils, but all of Sam’s other reactions pointed to that. Dean yanked Sam’s slacks up. “How ‘bout we go home?”

“Hoome. We don’ have a home. Homeless,” Sam mumbled.

“Don’t talk like that,” Dean reprimanded lightly. He kicked Eliot in the stomach as they walked by him.

“Always moving, no home, no life,” Sam said.

“I’m too tired to philosophize,” Dean sighed. “Why don’t you hush until the drug wears off, huh?”

“Shh, Sam, stop being a burden, Dean hates you, you stupid idiot,” Sam whispered.

Dean nearly jerked to a stop, but forced himself to keep walking. It was almost like Sam’s internal monologue had . . . no, that was stupid, it was just the drugs talking.

“Impala’s right here.” Dean tried to inject cheer into his voice. “Easy does it.”

He let Sam slump in the Impala and got up to get in the driver’s seat.

“Don’t leave me!”

The pure terror in Sam’s voice made Dean’s heart clench.

“Sammy. Hey, Sammy, I’m not leaving, I gotta drive.”

There were tears streaming down Sam’s face. Dean was tempted to go back to the backyard and shoot the little wimps full of rock salt on principle.

“Sammy, do you trust me?”

Sam’s face melted into a tearful smile. “With my life.”

“Well, trust me. I’m not leaving you,” Dean said gruffly. He leaned forward, pressing a dry kiss to Sam’s hair-covered forehead. “So stop being a little bitch.”

Sam’s smile went wide and loopy. “Jerk. Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Finally have posted all of the old prompts from fanfic.net, so now onto my lovely AO3 followers! :)


	14. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHINeeEXO713: Do you think you could do a one-shot with Sam being kidnapped and Dean finding and saving him please? With all the yummy stuff like hurt/comfort and angst!  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait, and for the lame title (I couldn't think of anything!)

Sam spat out some blood and sneered. “Let me guess, you’ve been talking to Gordon Walker?”

“Kid has a smart mouth on him.”

Sam bared his teeth. “Yeah, well, I’m talking to a bunch of thugs, it’d be wasted on you.”

A fist plowed into his temple, making his ears ring.

“Y’know, Gordon was right. Blind, it’s the perfect deception. Makes him seem weak and useless.”

“That’s cuz I am useless,” Sam said.

He heard the guy pick up something that sounded metal—he tensed.

“C’mon, Arthur. Let’s at least test him before we kill him.”

“Sure, sure.”

Without warning, Sam’s arm was slashed open, and he couldn’t hold back a yell.

“I dunno, sounded positive to me.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Alright, so that’s silver. We need to test bronze, salt, and holy water.”

Another knife slashed Sam’s other arm. Expecting it, Sam managed to bite back any cries of pain.

“Well then. Salt.”

Sam couldn’t hold back a howl as salt was ground into his arm.

“No reactions, aside from the obvious,” the one called Arthur mused. “Holy water?”

It was frigid, and Sam swallowed his desire to whimper and cry for Dean as he shivered in the chair.

“Alright. Looks like Gordon was wrong about this one. Tag him?”

“Sure.”

Sam knew the way a tattoo felt because of the protective sigil on his chest. Having something put onto him without his knowledge, though, felt degrading and terrifying at the same time.

“Move out.”

Sam was left alone, and terror made it hard to breathe. Were they just going to leave him here to rot? He pulled fruitlessly at the metal handcuffs and writhed, trying to dislodge the rope around his feet.

The tinny sound of a voice through a phone made him stop.

“Sam? Sam, are you there?”

“Dean!” Sam shouted.

“Sam, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Sam sobbed. “Dean, find me.”

“Hey, hey, man, I’ll find you. I’ll track your phone, okay? Just hang tight.”

Dean’s voice cut off, and Sam bit back his terror. Dean would find him. It was fine.

* * *

A loud bang woke Sam from his stupor.

“Sammy?”

“Dean,” he breathed.

“What happened here?” Dean asked urgently.

“Testing me to see if I’m evil,” Sam murmured. Competent hands picked Sam’s handcuffs and undid the ropes. “Checking me.”

“Torturing, more like,” his brother growled. It was purely the little brother part of Sam that preened and felt the glow of happiness at the rage in Dean’s voice. It was Dean’s way of caring . . . in a violent kind of way.

“Easy, easy,” Dean cautioned as Sam started to get up. “Let me take care of your arms.”

“Can we get out of here first?” Sam pleaded. He wasn’t proud enough to avoid using a slight pout and tilt of the head to get his way.

“Fine. You stupid little—“

Sam basked in the insults like he was supposed to as they made their way back to the motel. Sam had been stupid enough to get snatched in the first place, so he was mostly glad Dean wasn’t berating him for that.

“Did you get their names?”

There wasn’t long left before Dean was supposed to go to Hell, and Sam was damned—ha, that would have been funny if it didn’t hurt so much—if he would let Dean use up his days in some twisted revenge for some competent and probably smart hunters.

“Nah. They’re long gone.”

Fingers deftly manipulated Sam’s arms, cleaning and stitching them.

“Dude, they put salt in your wounds. That’s worth some payback,” Dean growled. He suddenly cursed loudly, making Sam jump. “What is this?”

“I don't know, what is it?”

“The tattoo.”

“Think they were marking me clean.”

Dean muttered imprecations under his breath. “Next time they decide to brand my little brother with a sigil I’m gonna slice their hands off.”

Sam shrugged. “They were doing their job.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that so I don’t slap you. Anyway, we’ll go get this removed.”

“Okay.”

“What happens when I’m gone, Sam? You can’t do this, okay? You stick with Bobby, don’t let people get the drop on you like this.”

Sam stiffened. “Or you could shut up.”

“I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying shut up. I’m gonna save you.”

“Sure, Sammy.”

Sam knew when he was being patronized, but that didn’t matter. Sam would figure it out, or die trying. Whatever Dean believed, that didn’t matter . . . as much as it did sting that Dean didn’t trust him. But Sam didn’t need his trust. Just a way to save him.


	15. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QuestionableSanity: Like, you know how Sam's got all these "Dean would hunt better/be safer with a not blind partner" feelings? Well, what if for some reason, like Sam broke an ankle or something, Dean has to hunt with someone else while Sam stays home and it goes terribly? Like, half way through, the other person calls Sam panicked because Dean's missing/captured or something, because this other person didn't know Dean as well as Sam does and couldn't work with him as well, and Sam has to talk the other person through what to do? And when Dean gets back, he hugs Sam with the attitude of I Am Never Working With Anyone Else Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kinda turned out a little different than the prompt said, mostly because I couldn't figure out how to get Sam to talk the other person through something . . . hope you like it anyway!

“We’ll be back in two days, okay?”

Sam was completely in brooding mode, unapologetically. He got the why. But it still hurt deep down, and he wasn’t about to be the better man and stop pouting about it.

“You’ll be okay, right? You've got enough food, and you better not move around on that ankle, okay?”

Dean’s voice had crossed over into his worried and concerned tone, and Sam wasn’t willing to have Dean be distracted on a hunt and get himself killed. “I’ll be fine, Dean,” he said with appropriate little brother sullenness. “I wanna go.”

Dean’s worry turned into teasing. “Yeah, let’s see you run after that monster with your twisted ankle, doofus.”

“You’re the doofus,” Sam returned petulantly.

“Dean, you ready to go?”

He scowled at the voice of Tim. Guy was supposed to be a good hunter, but that didn’t mean Sam was willing to trust him with Dean’s life.

“Yeah, man, I’ll meet you at the car.”

Dean made as if to leave, and Sam snagged his arm. “Be careful, okay?”

“Always am, little brother.” A calloused palm cradled Sam’s face briefly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better be.” Sam listened to the Impala pull our and, selfish as it was, hoped Dean wouldn’t like Tim. The hunts like this came up every now and then, even when Sam wasn’t out of commission due to a busted ankle, there were times where hunts with heavy hiking and outdoor work needed two able-bodied hunters, and Sam couldn’t do it.

Every time, it made fear boil in his stomach until the hunt was done—would this be the time Dean realized he could use an actual hunting partner? Maybe he would ask the guy or girl to come along with him, and Sam would slowly be relegated to a silent shadow. Maybe he would tell Sam that he should stay with Bobby for a while.

Sam hated being alone.

* * *

Sam's phone rang, and he fumbled for it.

“Dean?”

“Man, I’ve gotta bit of a situation up in here.”

The unfamiliar voice threw Sam for a moment. “Tim?”

“Look, I swear, the hunt was going fine and then he just collapsed. Does he have some kind of sickness or something?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Sam stood, and then folded with a groan as his ankle gave out. “The creature you were chasing. What’s it’s MO?”

“Ripping people apart,” Tim replied.

Sam waited, but Tim didn’t give him anything else. “That’s it? Did you do any research before going into this hunt?”

Tim hedged, “well, the signs all pointed to something that can be killed with iron.”

Sam bit back a curse. “Is Dean okay?”

“Breathing. Heart’s pumping. Staring, though, it’s pretty freaky looking.”

“You bring him back here now,” Sam snarled. “Forget your hunt, bring him back.”

“Alright, man, alright.”

* * *

By the time Tim had returned with Dean, Sam was ready to kill something. Maybe even someone. Tim. He should kill Tim.

“Here he is,” Tim grunted, depositing Dean on the bed.

“You’re probably hunting a creature with psychic abilities. Drops its prey by some kind of pulse and then goes in for the kill. Use a sniper rifle.” Sam was always good at research under pressure.

The room was silent, but Sam didn’t care, concerning himself mainly with checking Dean’s pulse and reactions to stimuli.

“I don’t—“

“Dude, get out of here before I shoot you on principle for getting my brother paralyzed,” Sam said flatly.

Tim slunk out, tail between his legs. Sam took a deep breath.

“You and me, Dean. Let’s see if I can’t wake you up, huh?”

Sam knew half a dozen rituals to ward against psychics off the top of his head—after the discovery of his own Shining, he had gone a little overboard on research.

None of them had any effect on Dean, though.

“Right. So, creature that can psychically manipulate prey . . . probably a simple paralyzing blow, knocks the recipient into his own head and locks him there. So you need a key,” Sam said to himself. “Key. Key word? No, it wouldn't be sophisticated enough for that.”

Sam paused. His own psychic abilities weren’t refined enough to really do anything, but that one time with Max . . .

It had taken the absolute fear of losing his brother. Sam swallowed. This time it would require tricking himself.

He thought about the million times he had come close to losing Dean. The terror. The . . . he can't do this he can’t lose him again, he'll be all alone he—

There was something, a coalescing shield that Sam needed to—

Everything went silent.

* * *

“Whoa, easy, Sammy.”

Sam had woken up in a flail and relaxed only at hearing Dean’s voice. “Dean, you’re awake?”

“Yeah, man. And Tim won’t return my calls, is he dead?”

Sam groaned and sat up, his head aching. “Nah, he went to go finish the hunt.”

“Don’t remember much.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to you?”

“Migraine,” Sam lied.

“Mmm. So how’d I get here?”

“Your buddy Tim didn’t research the hunt properly. You were dealing with something that paralyzed its prey, and it got you.”

“Ah.” Dean settled down next to Sam, the bed dipping to his weight. “Guess that’s why I need my geek brother, huh?”

“Duh.” Sam forced a grin and elbowed Dean in the side. “You’d be screwed without me.”

“You got that right.”


	16. Wading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by PeppermintLeaf: Any chance of a really angsty one shot of teenage Sam struggling with school and whatever else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out weirdly . . . expositional. Sorry.

Dean had once asked Sam what it was like being blind. Back at the beginning. Sam had stumbled through an explanation, and occasionally made Dean wear a blindfold to get the feeling.

He never told Dean about the crashing terror in the middle of the night, and being unable to find any light, feeling that he was in a living nightmare, that he never knew for sure if he was awake, or the monster was about to rip him into shreds, Dean already dead nearby but Sam unable to see for sure.

Sam had always had nightmares, ever since he was little. Fire and dark shadows and blood. Back when he was five, that had meant crawling into Dean’s bed and forcing Dean awake and making him comfort him. Sam had stopped once he had realized how much he was annoying Dean.

Not that Dean ever told him so. Still.

Sam lay panting in the darkness, fingers knotting in the cheap motel sheets as he tried to listen past his thundering heart and hear Dean’s breathing. After thirty long, painful seconds, Sam heard the rustling of sheets and a sigh as his brother turned over. Letting out his breath, Sam focused on letting himself focus, re-orient himself in the real world.

It was always the worst after they moved somewhere new. New area, new surroundings, nothing familiar except for two people and a car Sam knew better than his own face.

Maybe Sam never did wake up. Maybe he was always in a nightmare. That would make sense.

He mentally rolled his eyes at himself and smashed his face into the musty pillow. He had to suck it up and get over it. Dad and Dean had enough trouble dealing with him—essentially a walking stomach and nothing more. The least he could do was keep his whining to himself.

* * *

Unable to get back to sleep, Sam ended up pretending to wake up at the same time as Dean so he wouldn’t get the full gambit of concerned-and-over-protective-Dean. Even so, there was still some skittishness in Dean’s responses in the morning, but Sam figured that more had to do with Dean being unhappy letting Sam go to a new school without checking it out first. Semester started tomorrow, though, and they didn’t have the time.

“You let me know if you need anything. I don’t care what you think people will think, things go screwy and I’ll be there, and we can start next week.”

We. Sam wondered sometimes if Dean even realized that he was an individual, and instead thought of them as a unit in everything.

“I’ll be fine, Dean,” he said aloud. “You find a job yet?”

The Impala drifted to a stop.

“Haven’t had a chance to look. I’ll, uh, I’ll figure it out today.”

“Yeah.” Sam got out of the car and heard Dean scramble to do the same.

As usual, Dean let Sam take his left elbow, all the while describing the school and how Sam should get around. It seemed too soon before Dean was dropping him off at class though, and at sixteen, Sam was too old to hug Dean.

“You’re gonna be okay, right?”

“Sure.” Sam tried to smile for Dean. “Always am.”

“Uh huh.” Dean squeezed his shoulder. “Knock ‘em dead.”

* * *

It never got better, the awkward silences, the whispers, the jokes that eventually started to form once people got over their nervousness.

Sam didn’t have time for that, though, since the class he was in—pre-calculus—made zero sense, and worse, Sam couldn’t figure out how they were drawing the equations well enough to follow even one problem.

“Excuse me,” he ventured after class was over. “I didn’t really follow your introduction. Is there some way I could get the source material in a different form, or—“

“Kid, I have way too many students to teach to play favorites. You learn the stuff or you fail, that’s the deal.”

Sam flinched back. “Right. Sorry.”

He tapped his way out of the room, skin tight and uncomfortable. Maybe Dean had the right idea about school, maybe he should quit. Find a job.

Ha, like he could even do that. Sam kept his head down and made his way back to the entrance so he could ask the receptionist where his next class was.

* * *

Class after class led to the same kind of treatment. For some reason, this school was miles ahead of the last one Sam had attended, leaving him struggling in practically every subject. Worse, no one seemed to want to help him—last school, at least someone had given him copies of their notes so Dean could read them aloud. Now, no one was even willing to do that.

“How was your first day?”

“Fine,” Sam lied. He tried to smile. “You find a job?”

“Don’t give me that, c’mon, really. Make any friends?”

Dean opened the Impala door for him and Sam slid inside, steeling himself for the inquisition.

“How ‘bout any hot chicks, is that why you’re all clammed up?”

Sam slouched down against the bench seat. “What does it matter? You always said school was stupid, anyway.”

Dean went completely silent. That had been the wrong thing to say.

“Sam, what happened?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Dean’s hand wrapped around his skinny arm and shook him a little. “Sam, I swear, if you don’t tell me what happened then I’ll go in there myself and find out,” he threatened.

Sam yanked his arm away. “It’s nothing! People just wouldn’t help me out, and the school’s super far ahead, so I’m behind. But I’m fine!”

Dean started the Impala. “Can I help?” he asked after a moment.

“I’ll figure it out.” Sam folded his arms across his chest. “I always do.”

* * *

When John turned up with an emergency and needed them to come along, Sam tried to feel relief. Each day had been torture, trying to keep up. Switching schools would make everything easier. Maybe.

Why was he even upset? It was better this way.

Sam couldn’t stop from crying himself to sleep the first night away though. Just another sign he was weak. That at the end of the day . . . well, he just wouldn’t make it.


	17. Bumps in the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt by Lianarias: Maybe do one where Sam and Dean are kidnapped but the kidnappers underestimate Sam and he whoops butt to get him and his brother out?

Dean groaned, and felt cold, spidery fingers on his face. 

“Dean? Dean, are you okay? Talk to me, man, please, wake up, say something, anything.” 

“S’m,” Dean mumbled. “Wha’ happened?” 

“I don’t know. I think it’s a cult, though, I heard them chanting in ancient Greek.” 

Dean’s head was a little clearer, and he blinked his eyes to find Sam hovering over him, an awful bruise puffing up over his sharp cheekbone. 

“Did they hit us and knock us out?” he checked. He sat up slowly. 

Sam shook his head. “Chloroform. I was worried you might have had an adverse reaction, you took a lot longer to regain consciousness.” 

Dean muttered under his breath about Sam being too smart for his own good, earning him a light shove from his little brother. 

“Dean, was Dad working on this hunt?” 

Dean swallowed. They had stayed in town to let Sam finish up his sophomore year, not to get a hunt. Dad had a couple days ago to take care of a couple jobs up north. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been on the menu. 

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “But I’m sure he knows we’re missing.” 

“He wasn’t supposed to check in until friday,” Sam reminded him. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean trailed off lamely. “Have they talked to you?” 

“Just once.” 

Dean touched Sam’s cheek. “That’s where you got this?” 

Sam ducked his head sheepishly. “I kinda freaked out when you weren’t waking up. They weren’t happy with me.” 

“Well, we’ll figure this out, Sammy.” Dean patted his shoulder. “Any escapes?” 

Sam showed him his torn up fingers. “Tried everything.” 

Still weak, Dean grasped Sam’s shoulder. “Okay, so we’ll just—“ 

The door banged open, and Dean tried to pull Sam behind him, only to be overwhelmed as five guys swarmed them. 

“Dean!” Sam bleated. 

Dean snarled and tried to lash out, only to get caught with another whiff of some awful smelling chemical. Something heavy crashed into the back of his knee, fiery pain flowing from his knee. 

“Dean!” Sam’s voice sounded distant, now. “Hey, listen. I know you guys are really into this whole sacrifice thing, but have you thought about it?” 

The sounds of scuffling stopped. Dean shook his head, trying to regain focus. Was Sam . . . was Sam trying to reason them out of it? 

“I mean, the gods you’re trying to summon are very vindictive. If you do one little thing wrong, they’ll curse you and your entire family . . . have you ever heard of Oedipus?” 

The other people murmured, shifting around Dean. He tried to gain control over his own limbs, but everything felt slow and waterlogged. 

“If you think about it, you have better chances of winning the lottery than getting what you want from your gods without some kind of cosmic backlash. You could ask for money, and then you’ll end up with cancer. You ask for fame, and you’re best friend will die. Trust me, that’s how it goes.” 

“He’s lying,” one said firmly. 

“I don’t know . . .” 

“Look, we’ve researched this ourselves, he’s nobody, and he’s wrong.” 

Sam’s sigh was a classic ‘I’m smarter than everyone in the room and no one’s around to appreciate it’ sigh. “Alright, then. You asked for it.” 

“Asked for wha—“ 

A large thunk. Yelping, some cries of outrage. Some more thudding. Dean scrabbled helplessly at the concrete beneath his fingertips. 

“Easy, Dean.” 

“S’m,” he slurred. 

“I got ‘em. Rest of them ran off, though, we should get out of here.” His hands ran across Dean’s body lightly, pausing at his swollen knee. 

Dean felt himself being lifted into Sam’s arms, another sign of how his little brother was growing to be a giant. 

“Dean, help me get out of here.” 

Slowly, his eyes came into focus, looking around at the old barn. “Door’s to the left,” he rasped. “Hay bales in the way, you’ll have to kick ‘em out of the way.” 

“Got it.” 

“Sam, I can sta—“ 

“Shut up, Dean.” 

Dean tried to feel like he wasn’t a damsel in distress, being rescued by his blind little brother. It was mildly humiliating. 

“We should call for help,” Dean mumbled. He turned his face into Sam’s shirt. He could remember being carried by his mom to bed, and somehow Sam’s hold on him was triggering the same feeling of safety. 

Sam gently maneuvered the two of them through the barn doors, only barely brushing Dean’s head against the door frame. 

“What now?” 

Dean tried to get a sense of the area. “Um, nothing much. There’s a car, probably one of the creepy cultists. Five paces to two o’clock. ” 

“We can wait in the car until morning,” Sam said firmly. 

“Don’t you have school t’morrow?” 

“Uh huh. It’s fine.” 

“Dad—“ 

“Are you going to tell him?” 

Dean was set down on the damp ground and Sam started messing with the car door. Pushing his hands against the grass, he tried to make his wet noodle arms to friggin’ work already. 

“Easy, Dean, your knee shouldn’t take any weight until we get you to a hospital.” 

Dean groaned. “I feel so useless.” 

Sam looked amused. “Now you know how I feel all the time.” 

Embarrassment rushed over him in a wave. Dean swallowed, trying to find words, words that escaped his grasp. It was the drug’s fault. 

“Dude,” Dean blinked at the interior of the car as Sam settled him inside. “Cell phone.” 

“What?” 

Dean picked up the cultist’s phone and punched in their father’s number. 

“Dad?” 

“Whose phone are you using?” John asked swiftly. 

“Listen, we were kidnapped. Cultists, sacrifice, the usual. Sam got us out, but we’re stuck here, since my knee’s screwed up. Are you close?” 

There was sounds of paper being shuffled. “Yeah, gimme three hours. What did you mean, Sam got you out?” 

“Beat ‘em all,” Dean said proudly. As Sam slid into the other car’s seat, the tips of his ears went red. Yup. Sam had heard him. 

John was silent for a long moment. “That’s good,” he said stiltedly. “I’ll pick you boys up soon.” 

“Dad’s gonna get you free beer,” Dean grinned. “Nice work.” 

Instead of looking happy, Sam lapsed into the brooding headspace Dean worked so hard to keep him out of. Well, Dean wasn’t above using every advantage at his disposal, even if it was girlish of him to pretend to faint. 

He slumped over, head thudding into Sam’s bony shoulder. 

“Dean!” Sam frantically felt for Dean’s pulse. “Dean, are you okay?” 

“Mmm, I dunno,” he lied. Give Sam something to focus on, and he was far easier to manage. 

“Hey, stay awake for me, okay? We don’t know what chemical they used.” 

“Sure, kiddo.” 

“Don’t kiddo me.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean smiled and closed his eyes, leaning firmly against his little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really fun to make Dean the one being rescued. Not sure I quite fulfilled the prompt, but hopefully this worked.   
> Last call for prompts! I'm working on the final installments, so we're coming down to the wire now :)


	18. TK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IchigoMoonCutter on fanfic.net  
> Prompt: Sam has a sudden burst of telekinesis that helps defeat an enemy. Sam is scared about his powers but Dean calms him down. Brother bonding ensues.

Sam had once calculated it out: supposedly ‘easy’ and ‘good’ hunts went bad 67% of the time. On average. Tough hunts went bad 88% of the time.

This was an easy hunt. They were hunting a leprechaun. Pinch of gold to distract it, catch in a silver-lined cage. An expensive hunt, sure, but not a difficult one.

“Sam!”

“Dean!” He stumbled forward, one hand on the brick. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know! It keeps disappearing and reappearing in other places!” Dean had described it as huge, with horns.

“Come towards me,” Sam said desperately. “We need to get out of here.”

“I’m trying, Sammy, but I—whoa!”

“Dean!”

There was a loud bang. Sam bleated his brother’s name once more, to no avail.

“Sam, it’s on top of me,” Dean croaked out. “Try and shoot it, Sam, please—“

Sam shot and missed, judging by Dean’s groan. He crawled forward, trying to aim above Dean’s voice.

Dean let out a choked noise that Sam recognized—Dean had just been gored, probably.

He could picture it. Dean prone, the horn going through him and—

Sam yelled, inarticulate rage at his own helplessness and terror that he had just lost his brother for good.

A loud thud, and Sam found himself clutching his head, which made no sense. Why would his head hurt? Had the creature gored him through the forehead?

“Easy, Sammy, easy.”

Sam couldn’t understand what was happening. “Dean?” he asked feebly. “What—“

“Shh, it’s dead. Hang on there.” A strong arm wrapped around his torso, pulling him up. Sam’s shaking fingers encountered a warm wetness, and he choked in fear.

“You’re hurt, you can’t—“

“It’s just a surface wound,” Dean placated him. “Promise. The horn grazed me.”

“Does it need stitches?”

“Nah, it’s not deep.”

The rush of adrenaline faded, leaving Sam shaking and for some reason, with a headache.

“Let’s get back to the motel, Sammy.”

* * *

Sam had insisted Dean take a shower first and clean out his wound. Dean might have wanted to protest, but he was too sore to resist for long. As the water ran over his chest, it turned a little pink once it splattered against the grimy tile. Dean hadn’t been lying when he told Sam it was shallow, but it still stung.

“Hey, Sam, are you hungry?” he called through the motel door, drying himself off and pulling on boxers and a t-shirt. “I’m in the mood to order a pizza after that hunt.”

Silence answered him, and Dean hated the immediate flash of fear. He pushed his way out into the room. Sam was slumped against the bed, hands twisting together in a repetitive motion.

“Sammy,” Dean said warily.

“What happened tonight?” Sam asked.

Dean sighed, sinking down on the bed. “The thing was on top of me, and you blasted it.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “With my gun?”

It was tempting to lie, but Dean knew how screwed up things might get if he did that. “With your brain,” Dean admitted.

Dean had never seen someone actually pale at news before.

“I didn’t even . . . Dean, how can I do these things when I can’t control them or understand what’s happening, or—“

“—hey, hey, hey.” Dean clapped his hand across Sam’s mouth. “Shh.”

“Dean,” Sam tried to mumble.

“Sammy. You saved my life today. Freaking about your powers isn’t going to help anything. Whatever they are, they helped, right? Would you rather me be dead?”

Sam peeled Dean’s hand away from his mouth. “No,” he said reluctantly. “It’s just—“

“It’s just nothing,” Dean said firmly. “So far, your little bursts of telekinesis have only served to save my butt. So maybe they’re looking out for us, huh?”

Sam didn’t look convinced. “I suppose.”

“How ‘bout that pizza?”

Sam shrugged, pinched look still firmly in place. Dean sighed, scooting up on the bed to rest next to his brother. “Kiddo, you need to relax,” he murmured.

Sam slumped down against Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, we both know that’ll never happens.”

Dean smiled a little. “True enough.” He ruffled Sam’s hair affectionately. “That’s why you’re the one to keep me in line, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam wriggled closer. Dean thought momentarily about the pizza and then gave it up. They could relax. Big breakfast in the morning. Yeah. That’d be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closing prompting for now, I'm trying out nanowrimo, so things'll be busy for a while. Thanks for reading!


	19. Displaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt from Hacked It Out and Fell on ff.net: Dean and John are on a hunt when other hunters come to the motel looking for John, finding only sam they decide to haze him by tying his hands behind his back and blocking his hearing before leaving him some place he's where he's totally lost.  
> [changed the prompt a little]

“If he thinks he can steal from us, well then he can just shove it up his—“

“Shh. Let’s try sneaking in first.”

Sam shuddered, ducking back from the cracked window and scrambling behind the bed. He hadn’t been paying attention when Dad told him where the gun was. Crap, how could he have forgotten, he was going to—

The door slammed open, and Sam rolled underneath the bed.

One of the men swore. “He’s not here.”

“He ain’t getting out of this,” one of the others growled.

“Check for the money. Anything of value.”

“We gonna wait for him to show?”

“I dunno, we might—“

The voice cut off. Sam waited, heart betraying him as the rapid beat echoed in his ears.

Large hands grasped his ankles, pulling him out in a painful jerk that probably gave him rug burn.

“Get off of me!” Sam squirmed, trying to kick out and failing to make contact.

One of the men whistled. “Who’s this?”

“Must be his kid.”

“Get out of here!” Sam yelled.

“Kid has fight in him.”

“C’mon, boy, you can do better than that.”

The one holding his arm dropped it suddenly. “He’s blind.”

The others laughed. “Your daddy hide you away because he’s ashamed of you, huh?” one taunted.

The words cut deep, like they were supposed to. Sam lashed out, catching someone’s shin with his foot.

“You little—“

“I say we teach the man a lesson through his son.” The voice was deeper and calmer than the others. Sam snarled as a cruel hand gripped his upper arm, jerking him to his feet.

“My dad’ll kick your—“

Without warning, Sam was punched in the gut. He gasped for breath as the men laughed.

“You’re coming with us, kid.”

The ground disappeared, and Sam was slung over someone’s shoulder like a sack of meat. He tried to keep track of which direction he was taken, but upside-down and dizzy, he couldn’t tell right from left.

He was unceremoniously dropped on a forest floor.

“Hey, kid.”

A fist came from nowhere, slamming into his face. Sam was manhandled and his hands lashed behind his back.

“Tell your dad that he should keep his grubby hands to himself.”

A final kick made Sam topple over, aching and disoriented as they left.

For a while, he lay there, feeling sorry for himself.

Until he thought of how freaked out Dean would be.

With a groan, Sam pushed himself to his feet, twisting his shoulders painfully as he pulled at his bound hands. The men had gone . . . that way. Maybe.

After ten minutes of walking—and tripping—Sam had to admit defeat. The forest was probably huge, and the only way he was getting out of here was if someone found him. He sank to the ground, his hands uselessly tied behind him, and cried.

* * *

Dean’s freckles stood out on his face when he was scared, pale skin enough to mark his terror.

“Dad, how can he be gone? He knew not to leave, right?”

John sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “He know anyone around here? The motel manager or something?”

Dean shook his head. “No one.”

John caught a glance of the motel pad and swallowed. “Dean.”

It was cruelly poignant: you stole from us. We stole from you. Find your son, if you can.

Dean spit out curse words that he shouldn’t even know yet. John took a deep breath, pushing himself back into hunting mode.

“Dean, go to the front office and ask them if they saw these jokers. I’ll start looking for signs.”

Dean was always completely obedient when it came to protecting his little brother. He ran off, leaving John to go into the parking lot and check for prints in the limited grass. The trampled down bit headed in the direction of the gas station across the street. The note made it sound like they still had Sam, but why would they? John had hustled the guys, and that wasn’t worth them getting caught as kidnappers.

He narrowed his eyes at the forest behind the gas station.

Dean jogged out towards him. “Saw the group of them, didn’t see Sam. Said they headed off into the forest.

Yahtzee. John gestured Dean forward, the two of them aligned as a unit as they entered the forest. Dean was uncharacteristically silent—completely focused when it came to his brother.

“Dad.” Dean pointed out a bit of torn cloth—Sam’s sweatshirt—and the two of them darted forward.

When they found Sam, Dean was the first forward, yelling Sam’s name at the top of his lungs and wrapping up his brother in a hug. John followed more sedately, keeping his eye out for those—

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.” Sam was practically sobbing. Dean pulled him close, working at the rope around Sam’s arms.

“You’re fine, dude. They didn’t hurt you much, did they?”

Sam’s hair flopped in front of his unseeing eyes. John gently pushed Dean aside, checking out Sam for himself.

“What did they say to you?” he demanded.

One of Sam’s hands crept out, reaching for Dean and twisting into his jacket. “They wanted their money, I think.”

Dean’s eyes were accusing, blaming John for being the cause for this. John built up his defenses; it was all necessary, to keep them floating (and to get him alcohol, if he was being honest).

“Let’s get out of this town,” John said. Dean picked Sam up like he was still a child, letting Sam bury his face into his neck. John’s raised eyebrow was ignored, and Dean murmured comfort into Sam’s ear. John led the way back.

Dean piled into the back with Sam, pulling him close and telling him to sleep.

John let his attention go to the next hunt, until he heard Dean cough, pointedly.

“Dean?”

“You can’t put Sammy in danger like that.” It wasn’t a request, it was a demand. John bristled, looking into the rearview mirror.

“I didn’t know there would be danger.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean met his gaze. “You be more careful. What if they had decided to really kidnap him? Rape him?”

John swallowed. “All right.”

“Yes?” Dean pressed.

“I’ll be more careful.”

Dean nodded, and pulled Sam a little closer, leaving John feeling even more guilty than usual.

He got his kids M&Ms at the next gas stop.

It wasn’t enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nano's been eating me up, but I managed to get this bit out. Hope all of you have a blessed Thanksgiving :)


	20. Blessed Are the Wise . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reannablue -Hmmm Prompts: Sam (late teens maybe) faces some normal type surgery (ie...tonsils) and he gets a little (or maybe a lot) needy when scared about the surgery.

Dean heard the door slam. He braced himself.

“Hey, Sammy,” he greeted.

In return, he got a terse, “it’s Sam.”

Dean tried to keep himself from rolling his eyes . . . he failed.

“Look, Dad’s set up dentist appointments for us.”

Sam snorted. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know about you, Sammy, but I don’t want to end up like some of those hunters.” Dean shuddered at the thought. “I want my teeth intact by the time I’m 40.”

He got a little smile out of Sam, finally. “When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning. D’you have a lot of homework?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Dean watched as Sam went over to the table, setting up his schoolwork and diving right in. He didn’t ask how Dean’s day was. Or how their Dad’s hunt was going. Resentment bubbled up in Dean, and he didn’t push it away. Screw Sam.

“I’m going out,” he said abruptly.

“Fine.”

Sam didn’t move from his place at the table.

* * *

Sam shifted a little, feeling the Impala’s leather sticking to the backs of his legs. Arizona was hot this time of year. “Do we have to do this?” he asked.

Dean wasn’t happy with how Sam was shutting him out—every time he talked to Sam, it was a mix of anger and hopefulness, trying to see if Sam would open up, go back to the way they were.

“Sam. The dentist said your wisdom teeth have to come out.”

Sam shifted again. He should’ve worn jeans. Then he wouldn’t be sticking to the leather. “Maybe he messed up,” he muttered.

“What’s your deal? You’ve been stitched up with floss before, now you’re scared of getting a couple teeth pulled?”

Sam bristled at the derision in Dean’s tone. “Shut up,” he snapped.

They entered the dentist’s together, but Sam hadn’t felt more alone. He hesitated, reaching out tentatively to tug at Dean’s sleeve like he was four again.

“Dean,” he murmured. He tried to keep the actual fear from entering his voice, but it was a little tough. “I don’t want to do this.”

The earlier anger was absent from Dean’s response. “Sammy. It’ll be fine. They do this all the time, and you’ll be knocked out for the majority of it.”

That was the problem, Sam wanted to say. Dean’s arm nearly moved out of his grip and he clung, violently pulling at Dean’s elbow.

“Can you give us a couple minutes?” he heard Dean murmur. He was shunted into a different place, an empty room. Sam wrapped his arms around himself.

“Sam. What’s going on here? It’s not just that you hate dentists, is it?”

Sam twisted his own shirt in his hands. For months he had been pushing Dean away, bracing himself for leaving for college, for being alone.

Gentle hands grasped Sam’s, pulling them away from their tight grips.

“Sammy.”

“The drugs,” Sam blurted out. “I don’t want to be . . . drugged.”

Dean’s hands left his, and Sam resisted the urge to chase after them. He pulled back into himself.

“Hey. Sammy, you want to hear something?” Warm arms enclosed him—when was the last time he had hugged Dean?—in a strong embrace. “I’m going to be there the entire time. I can’t miss seeing you high on drugs, y’know?”

Sam buried his face into his brother’s shoulder. The t-shirt fabric was worn, soft against his skin. He nodded, shakily. A hand crawled up and down his spine for a minute, grounding him.

“You good?” Dean asked mildly.

“Give me thirty more seconds,” Sam mumbled into the fabric. A chuff of laughter went through Dean, but thankfully no mocking came.

“Take all the time that you need,” Dean said. “We’re good.”


	21. REM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glitter lisp on fanfiction.net:How about some sleepwalking Sam? Maybe it's a vision, maybe it's a regular dream, but him wandering away in the middle of the night and having no clue where he is when he wakes up.

Sam had learned to tell the difference between a dream and a vision. Neither could he particularly control—each left him swimming through dregs of sleep, unable to pull free, but visions were brighter, the colors more vivid, not made up of fractured memories, instead immediate, real images.

And, of course, visions came with a splitting pain through his skull.

When a vision actually occurred, however, Sam never had enough self-possession to recognize it or do anything about it.

Which was why it came as a surprise when the woman in his vision—screaming, started running. And Sam was able to follow.

“Wait!” he called.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Sam scrambled after her, the ground fuzzily indistinct underneath his feet.

She screamed.

Sam, for a moment, could see a distinct bead of sweat on her forehead.

She screamed, again, and there was a bullet wound in her chest. Sam jerked reflexively.

The vision sent a blast of pain through his skull, corkscrewing and pinpricking and—

Sam groaned. Aloud.

“Dean?” he mumbled.

There was no response. The sound of a car’s skidding tires made Sam flinch, crawling against the hard gravel.

“Dean?” Sam was too scared to be ashamed of his trembling voice. Another car was going by, and Sam shoved backwards until his back hit a brick wall.

“Hey man, here’s some change.”

Some coins dropped in his lap. Sam scowled. “I’m not homeless,” he growled.

The person was already gone. Sam assessed. He was in his sleepwear, hair mussed and dirt on his skin. Yeah, it wasn’t that person’s fault. It still stung.

Sam climbed to his feet, holding onto the brick wall. He began walking, slowly, passing one doorway, two windows. The dregs of the vision still had his head pounding. His lip itched, and he swiped at it, dried fluid clinging to his hand.

Someone brushed his sleeve as they passed. Sam turned, calling out, “could you help me,” but he was ignored. As he was by the next three people. Sam’s bare feet picked up gravel, sharp bits of rock that embedded themselves into his flesh. He kept walking. It was all he could do.

* * *

Despite their life hunting the supernatural, most times when Dean woke up, he had Sam next to him. If they were kidnapped, then it was together, in side-by-side cages, Sam slightly panicked but trying not to show it, and Dean doing the same.

So when he woke up to an empty room, an open motel room door, and a broken salt line? Yeah, Dean freaked.

If he hadn’t strained his elbow on their last hunt. If he hadn’t taken the stronger pain pills. If he hadn’t stayed on his own bed, and gone over to Sam’s to mess around on his laptop together before falling asleep, so Dean would have noticed—

If, if, if. None of it was helpful. Dean snarled to himself, pulling on his boots and tucking his gun into his holster. His jacket went on top, so no cops would see the gun.

No sulfur. Not demonic. No blood, or signs of a struggle. The salt was scattered, like someone had shuffled through it. Maybe Sam went by his own power . . . influenced? Mind control? They weren’t on a case, currently, but if there was a nearby witch or wannabe psychic, no one could resist Sam if they sensed some sort of power or whatever. Dean hated the thought, but it was relatively viable as a theory. He darted out the door, glancing around the motel parking lot. He bounced the Impala’s keys in his hand. Drive?

Dean grimaced and darted to his baby. With no leads, she would have to be his one shot.

The dim streets did nothing to calm Dean’s nerves. They weren’t in an awful part of town, but it wasn’t great, either. Nothing that spoke of anything supernatural, though—

Dean slammed on the brakes, the car behind him honking and swerving to pull around him, gesturing rudely as they did so.

“Sammy!”

At Dean’s call, Sam’s drooping head raised. The relief was as plain on his face as the dried blood.

“Dean!”

Dean gathered him close, trying to ignore the fact that he was trembling and the relief was making him tear up.

“Dude. What happened?” Gently, he tilted Sam’s head back. The blood looked like it had come from a bloody nose.

“Vision, I think.” Lines around Sam’s eyes hinted at that. Dean furrowed his own brow, checking Sam over for any other injuries.

“And you ended up outside why?”

“I don’t know. I . . . I was running after her. She was being chased, I wanted to help, and—“ The panic suddenly returned, raw in Sam’s violent grab for Dean’s shoulders. “Dean, she’s going to be shot, we have to help her!”

“Okay, Sammy, we will,” Dean soothed.

Sam started babbling the details—what he had seen, hints towards the girl’s identity. Dean focused on steering Sam towards the Impala, noticing the pain as he walked from torn up feet. Those would have to be disinfected and Sam might have to stay off his feet.

“Dean, are you listening to me?”

Dean sighed, settling Sam against the Impala’s seat. “Sammy. We’ll help her. But first we need to take care of you.”

Sam made an aggravated noise. “I’m fine, we need to—“

“Sam!” Dean barked. “I get it, she’s in trouble. But you need to . . . you need to let me take care of you, alright? Please, Sam.”

Sam ducked his head. “Fine,” he said sullenly.

Dean would take what he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am technically finishing up the last prompt now, and topping off the Unseen 'verse overall. However, because I've had this series up on AO3 for a shorter time than on ff.net, if you are a reader and manage to read this and comment on this chapter before December 18th, then I will be open for prompts on here 'til then! Hurry, and I'll do my best to finish them off before Christmas :)


	22. Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> StyxxsOmega on ff.net: Have you done a claustrophobic blind Sammy one?

“Right. So, I’ll be back in a couple hours.” 

“Stay on the radio,” Sam commanded. 

Dean groaned. “Duh.” 

Every ghost hunt went the same; Sam in the car, waiting for Dean to come back. Sam hated it. 

“I’m looking for a record time grave digging,” Sam told him. 

“Please. Record schmecord. Easy for you to say. Ground’s marshy, and rain’s coming in. Trust me, this is not gonna be a record time.” 

“Fine. That still means you need to hurry.” 

“No one else is getting taken,” Dean promised. His voice had been comforting Sam for all his life, and it never failed to do so, even in situations like this. 

For his brother, Sam forced a smile onto his face. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he said. 

“That’s my line.” A hand brushed through his hair, and then the Impala’s door closed. 

“Testing, one, two.” Dean’s voice crackled through the radio. 

“Five by five. Get digging, bro.” 

“Got it.” 

Sam checked in every twenty minutes. Dean griped about the mud, and Sam’s muscles unwound for the few moments they spent talking. Until Dean went off the radio again to dig, and everything became tense. And cold. 

Sam frowned. They were in New Orleans. Why would he be cold?” 

The radio hissed and crackled. 

“Dean?” 

“—am?—ou—ee—wha—“ 

“Dean, I think something is—“ 

Sam choked as the cold entered his chest, a whisper of sound in his ear, and then a disconcerting wave of dizziness. 

“Dean!” 

There was something wrong with his voice. Sam’s hand went to his throat, and the back of it brushed against wood. His voice was deadened by the barrier. 

Wait. Wood? 

Sam’s fingers splayed against cheap plywood in front of his face. The rough wood pulled against his skin. Sam kicked out, squirming. 

A coffin. 

In their case, three separate people had gone missing, only to turn up in fresh graves that hadn’t been dug by the undertaker. 

Sam had just become the fourth. 

He slammed his fists against the wood, crying out. Nothing met his ears except for complete silence. 

“Dean!” 

The wood swallowed his voice. Sam kicked weakly at the wood, scratching with his fingernails in the hopes of finding a weak point, something, anything that would help him get free. 

There wasn’t enough room for Sam to get any kind of leverage. He shuddered, and there was a ringing noise in his ears, and wet liquid on his fingertips, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t . . . Dean . . . he couldn’t . . . 

Sam woke up and heard a rhythmic thudding noise over his head. He gently reached out, placing his palm against his wooden prison. 

He knocked. SOS. 

The thudding came back, a pattern only Dean knew. Sam sagged back against the bottom of the coffin, taking shallow breaths. The air was getting thin, and it would definitely take Dean a little while longer. The panic from earlier had left—Sam focused on pretending that the walls around him weren’t there, despite the sensory perception coming in from his skin. It was fine. He would be fine. 

“Sammy!” 

Dean’s voice was muffled, but Sam could hear it, he could hear something. 

“Dean!” he called. His hoarse voice sounded weak, and Sam coughed to try again. “Dean!” 

“I’m almost there, Sammy. You good?” 

“I’m good,” Sam responded dutifully, lying through his teeth. 

Sam counted out the ten more minutes it took for Dean to break through. Dirt spilled through his face as the cheap wood splintered. Sam went into a frenzy, shoving his way free and completely disregarding the tearing wood and thick dirt. 

“Sammy, Sam, easy, easy, easy.” Hands clutched at Sam’s shoulders, hemming him in, trapping—Sam exploded, breaking free and crawling out of the hole and into empty space. He took deep gulping breaths. 

“Sam, don’t hyperventilate. I need you to listen to me, okay? You’re free. Got it?” 

Sam shuddered, hands tearing grass from the ground. “Not trapped, free, free,” he muttered. 

The tips of Dean’s fingers touched Sam’s cheek. “No more freaking out, huh? Come on. Relax for me?” 

Sam bobbed his head, dislodging Dean’s fingers. At the loss of contact, he scrambled to find Dean’s arm again, only relaxing when it was in his grip. 

“I swear, when I came back and found you gone . . .” Dean’s voice was low enough to let Sam know that the words weren’t for him. He pulled in close to Dean, his brother’s presence no longer trapping, only comforting. 

“Couldn’t get out,” Sam said stiltedly. “I hate it, Dean, hate being helpless like that.” 

“Small spaces suck,” Dean agreed. “And you used to make fun of me for being claustrophobic.” 

Sam pulled back a little. Frowned. “I did?” 

“When we were little. You were four, I was eight, and we got stuck in a closet. I freaked out, and you thought I was playing. Giggled like a manic evil toddler. I thought you were possessed.” 

“Did not,” Sam mumbled. He gave in to the urge and leaned back in. Dirty, sweaty Dean was pretty ripe, but it was better than wood and moist earth. 

Dean didn’t make fun of him, cinching his arms tightly around Sam’s body. “We’re good,” he said. “Yeah?” 

Sam nodded.


	23. Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peppermint Leaf: How about Dean gets annoyed with Sam because he can't do something or doesn't understand something because of his blindness

“Hey, Dean?”

Sam could hear his brother messing around in the bathroom, getting ready for his big date. He crept close to the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yo, Sammy, you would not believe how hot Linda is. I mean, it’s a good thing I beat up her jerk of a boyfriend for her. I’m getting luckyyy tonight.”

Sam bit his lip. “Yeah, Dean, but—“ he started.

“I wonder if this jacket’s too big on me, still,” Dean wondered aloud. “Last place, some girl told me it looked like I picked up one size too big. What do you think, Sammy?”

Sam reached out until his hand met one leather sleeve. He ran his fingers over the supple fabric to the shoulders. Dean’s shoulder felt small underneath the thick leather.

Sam shrugged. “I guess you’re good,” he said awkwardly. “Dean . . .”

“Thanks, Sammy.” A calloused hand ruffled his hair. “You good?”

“Dean,” he blurted out. “I . . . I need your help.”

“What is it?” There was exasperation in Dean’s voice. Sam felt his stomach twist with guilt.

“I . . . I have a project due tomorrow. And I was supposed to make a poster board, but I haven’t been able to . . .”

Dean let out a heavy sigh. “And you bring this up now?” There was disappointment in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, voice small. “I just need the board and a marker and tape and some paper.”

He heard Dean muttering to himself, and shrank away, He hadn’t asked earlier because their dad had been home, unhappy about his current hunt, and Sam didn’t want to make him angry.

“I’ll get your stupid board,” Dean muttered, and then he was gone.

Sam knew how worthless he was. Over a year after being blinded, and he still could barely walk down the street without getting lost or freaking out. When Dean returned and tossed him the board, Sam took it and stayed silent. Dean left without saying goodbye.

He could finish his project on his own. If only he had tape.

Sam set off, terror thrumming through his veins. His cane tapped inelegantly against the sidewalk. When Sam started shivering—he had forgotten his coat—the tapping became even more erratic.

Sam wasn’t sure how he did it, but he managed to find the convenience store’s entrance. The cashier helped him find the tape, thankfully, but then Sam was on his own again as he left the store and began slowly making his way back.

It had taken him fifteen minutes to find the convenience store.

Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty. And then thirty, as Sam vaguely stumbled around, weaving in-between the road and the various buildings, unable to find the motel.

To add insult to injury, it started to rain, a cold, biting rain. For minutes that felt like hours, Sam wandered, desperate, until his hand ran into a wall. It was painted brick, like the motel. Sam shuffled until he reached the edge, and began walking down a row of doors. Their room door was a broken, upside-down seven, and when Sam’s fingertips skidded across the cold metal, he could have cried in relief.

Sam awkwardly pulled off his sodden clothes, shimmying on dry ones. He was still freezing, but couldn’t get into bed until he finished his project.

Sam had been very careful, writing and preparing his board, marking them with Braille. He carefully laid the papers out on the board, hopefully in the right order. It was a timeline for history class, after all, and if Sam put them out of order, he would be screwed.

When he was done, Sam crawled under the covers, his frigid body curled into a small ball in the hopes of warming. More than anything, he wanted Dean, but he didn’t deserve his brother. He deserved to suffer.

* * *

“—am? Sammy, come on, wake up.”

Sam’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. There was a sweeping feeling, like the tide was going out. He groaned, reaching out to feel the open clock face. 10:00?

Sam tried to sit up, only to fall back with a moan as he shivered uncontrollably.

Dean’s voice was a vague buzzing in his ears. Sam needed to go to school, he was late, and—

“Sammy, can you tell me what happened?”

“Dean, need t’go to school,” Sam mumbled. He tried to find the covers to shove them off.

“You’re sick, Sam. You aren’t going anywhere.”

Sam shivered unhappily. “Proj’t due, need to—“

“I’ll take care of it. Sam, please, relax.”

There was something strange about Dean’s voice. Sam frowned. “Dean? Did you go on your date?”

“Did you go out on your own?” Dean didn’t answer his question. That was weird. Usually Dean loved to boast about his lady friends. It took Sam a couple seconds to remember that Dean was asking him a question.

“Got tape,” he mumbled.

“And you were out in that crappy weather. Did you use your coat?” There was something in Dean’s voice again, probably anger. Sam cringed.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Stupid of me, I didn’t—“

A cool hand pressed against his burning forehead. “Shhh, I’m so sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t’ve left you alone like that,” Dean told him.

Sam wanted to apologize again—Dean shouldn’t have to stay around him, Sam was only a burden, but Dean’s hand was too soothing against his aching head, and the tide rushed back in.


	24. The Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amanda please: Can you please do something with Sam being self conscious about his appearance? Whether on a date or in college or whatever. Maybe even unmatching/wardrobe mishap that Jess or Dean fixes for him

Dean heard the door slam and grinned.

“How’d it go?” he called.

The expected came: “shut up!”

The unexpected was the sound of something breaking. Dean got off the couch like a shot, darting into their shared room.

“Dude! What was that for?”

The lamp was scattered in various pieces across the floor, Sam frozen above it, unable to move because of the shards near his feet.

“You idiot,” Dean said, half-fondly, half-exasperated. “What’d you do that for?”

Sam flushed, up to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered.

Dean maneuvered his dorky little brother out of the mess and onto the bed. “Don’t move,” he told him. “How’d your school thingie go?”

Sam turned his head away. “Fine.”

Dean frowned. “So, not fine,” he translated. “I thought you were the debate team’s shoe-in?”

“I was, until I messed it up.”

Dean ignored the broken lamp for now and sat down on the bed next to his sibling. “Yeah?” he prompted.

“I, uh, I had my shirt on inside-out. The other team made fun of me, and I lost focus, and messed everything up.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dean wrapped an arm around Sam’s bony shoulders—he needed to make Sam eat more—and squeezed his upper arm comfortingly. “You shouldn’t let things get to you like that. Who cares that your shirt was inside-out?”

“I do, Dean!” Sam shoved Dean’s arm away. “I can’t even get dressed without looking like a moron; how is anyone ever going to take me seriously?”

“Only idiots won’t take you seriously because of your clothes, Sammy. But how ‘bout we figure out a way for you to check your clothes each time?”

“How?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“We can mark them in Braille,” Dean said. “That work?”

Sam’s high set of his shoulders lowered a little. “Yeah, Dean,” he said softly. “That’d be good.”

“Big brother knows best.” Dean noticed a smudge of dirt on Sam’s cheek and said nothing. “Right?”

“Shaddap, jerk,” Sam laughed, the vestiges of his anger going out of his system. Dean smirked.

“I’d like to see you stop me, bitch,” he returned. Crisis averted.

* * *

“Sam, hey, you ready?”

Sam felt over his face one more time, and sighed. “Coming, Jess,” he called. They had been on two dates, and for some reason she hadn’t started avoiding him. Sam was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We should leave now,” Jess said.

Sam edged out of the bathroom hands fruitlessly going to flatten down his hair again. “You good to go?” he asked.

Her laugh was the sweetest thing Sam had ever heard. “I would be if you were,” she said.

Sam stiffened. “What?”

Nimble fingers wiped at his face, swiping up some shaving cream Sam must’ve missed. “I take it you just shaved?”

Sam flushed heavily. “Usually my br—“ Sam bit his lip and changed the subject. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, no problem. One time I went an entire with a piece of spinach stuck between my front teeth and no one said anything to me. Very rude of them. I’d rather know than be super embarrassed when I notice it later, right?”

Sam relaxed a little. “Yeah,” he said. “It happens more than I’d like.”

Jess somehow slid underneath his arm, her slim arm going around his waist. “Well, I guess that I’ll have to stick around and make sure it doesn’t happen too much, huh?”

Hope and pleasure burst somewhere underneath Sam’s sternum. “Sounds good,” he managed to stumble out. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little short, I hope you don't mind, prompter. Anyway, thanks for reading everybody--the last part to my Unseen 'verse will be coming sometime soon! Stay tuned :)


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